


The New Monuments Men

by Sholio



Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-19 03:09:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 39,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1453222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sholio/pseuds/Sholio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU for White Collar Reverse Bang - Neal leads a gang of thieves who steal artifacts and return them to their rightful owners. FBI agent Peter Burke infiltrates their group to take them down. But the more Peter learns about their mission, the more doubts he has about his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Aragarna provided the lovely artwork that inspired the story. And a special thanks to Frith-in-thorns, who is the plot-doctoring _queen_. There were several points where I was stuck and ran my dilemma past her and she came up with a brilliant solution.  <3

Phil Kramer's office didn't have much of a view. DC in general wasn't a city that went for tall architecture, particularly not in the area around the Mall. The Hoover Building, headquarters of the FBI, was a low, sprawling concrete monstrosity, famous all over the city for its industrial ugliness. Kramer had a corner office on the third floor that looked down on Pennsylvania Avenue. If Peter leaned just right, he could glimpse the Washington Monument past a concrete abutment blocking most of what little view there was, possibly installed in the event of attack by siege engines.

"The group's code name in Bureau files is The Orchid. You might be going overseas for this one, Pete."

Peter dragged his attention from the view, what there was of it, and accepted the folder from his handler. "Overseas?" he said. "We're the FBI, not the CIA."

"We're helping out Interpol. International art thieves. I recommended you personally, Pete." Kramer sat back and gave him a long look. "You're good at deep cover. Maybe the best I've worked with."

He didn't feel like it right now. In fact, he wished he'd had a lot longer than four days to recover from the last job. It wasn't that things had gone bad -- well, no worse than usual, anyway. But he'd been doing undercover for a long time now, and a long time at any given stretch: one, two, even five years in one case. He'd grown used to putting on and discarding identities, making friends, getting close to people, only to arrest them and start over. He was forty-seven years old and the only people he was close to were his parents ... at least on the infrequent occasions when he was able to contact them.

Which was yet another reason to resent being called in from his parents' farm upstate. They were getting old, and they needed a son who could be there to help them, not one who had to run off for another six months or two years out of touch whenever the phone rang.

"I know you've been cleared for fieldwork, but I won't send you out if you don't think you're ready," Kramer said. "I'd prefer to have you on this one, though, if you think you can handle it. It's a tough job. They're an exclusive gang and they aren't going to be easy to infiltrate."

"Art theft, huh?" Peter asked, flipping through the folder. Some high-profile robberies here. He'd probably have heard of them if he hadn't been undercover lately, but as much as he tried, keeping up with the current most wanted list was often beyond him. It beat infiltrating one of the syndicates, though.

"Don't make the mistake of thinking they're harmless because they run Picassos rather than drugs. They jumped to high priority because they killed two people on a recent job," Kramer said, and Peter looked up quickly. "Two Americans, specifically, which pitches the ball to us. Up to that point, they'd been basically nonviolent -- made kind of a point out of it, actually. Criminals." He snorted. "Always show their true colors eventually."

Peter had seen and done too much in the last two decades to believe in a firm bright line between his side and the other side anymore, much as he'd like to. Still, he felt a hard twist of anger when he flipped to the photos of the two Memphis museum guards who had died. "Very professional," he remarked, trying to distance himself and see them as victims rather than people. "One shot each. Headshots. They hadn't done anything like this before?"

"No, it's not their usual MO. They might have been surprised, or working with someone new. In any case, we've heard rumors of a falling out in the group, which makes this the best opening we're gonna get."

"Give me the lowdown. What targets do they normally go for?" Peter asked. He turned the next page to a candid photograph of two young people, both beautiful and dark-haired, arms around each other at a cafe somewhere. It had the characteristic depth-of-field flattening of a long telephoto lens. They looked happy and playful and very much in love. It made his heart hurt in a different way; they looked like college kids, not criminals. Of course, sometimes a hardened killer could lurk behind a beautiful baby face.

"High-end art and antiquities mostly, usually for overseas buyers. Their calling card is an origami paper flower." There were two such flowers flattened in the dossier, one made from stiff yellow paper, the other from what appeared to be a Chinese takeout menu. "They've made a couple of public statements about returning the items to their rightful owners, which I imagine means whatever fancy-pants collector or third-world dictator will pay top dollar. Otherwise they stay very much under the radar when they're not working. We don't know where they're based. We haven't even confirmed the identities of everyone in the gang."

"They're hardly more than kids," Peter murmured. The photo on the next page was a street shot of a different dark-haired woman coming out of a glass-fronted public building. Her head was turned, looking toward the camera as if she knew she was being watched. She looked enough like the other woman to be related, though unlike the first brunette's striking beauty, this one was pretty in a girl-next-door kind of way.

"They're pros," Kramer corrected him. "Most of them don't have a record only because they haven't been caught yet. There's an exception, though."

He flipped past another attractive woman, this one a strawberry blonde, and found the exception: Matthew Keller, whose rap sheet included armed robbery, assault, and several suspected murders. "Nice," Peter muttered, revising his opinion of the nice-looking kids on the previous pages a few notches downward. Criminals, in his experience, were like that old saying about mice: if you see one mouse, it means there are two dozen more in the walls. Similarly, one prior for assault implied a whole bunch that hadn't stuck.

"We also think there's at least one gang member we haven't even spotted. They're good, Petey." Kramer leaned forward. "But you're better."

 

***

 

He didn't have to jet off immediately; he got a few days to familiarize himself with the contents of the folder and brush up on his cover. Peter couldn't help thinking he was a poor fit for a glamorous international ring of art thieves, but they'd resurrected one of his past undercover identities: Peter Lear, a Boston burglar with a Robin Hood complex and a history of giving his thefts away to charity. Which Peter seemed to recall had earned him a disciplinary note in his file at the time -- failure to properly log evidence -- but would be immensely useful for slipping inside the do-gooder facade that the gang liked to cultivate. Lear had dropped out of sight after his "friends" were arrested, but the ever-busy computer jocks at the FBI filled in some sketchy details for Lear's movements over the last decade, leaving Peter to close the gaps.

He also met -- or rather, was reunited with -- his FBI liaison, Diana Berrigan. Kramer, while technically still his handler, was too high-profile now that he was running Art Crimes to be easily contacted, so communication would pass through Diana. She would also liaise with Interpol on his behalf. Peter had worked with her when she was a raw probie fresh out of Quantico, and was pleased to see that she'd bloomed into the promising agent he'd known she would become. Having her at his back gave him a boost of badly needed confidence.

"Home" for the duration was his apartment in DC, empty and musty-smelling and almost devoid of personal effects; he was there so rarely that he sometimes wondered why he kept the place, but it was convenient to have it when he needed it. He kept a suitcase packed with Peter Lear's clothes -- Lear favored dark colors and suit jackets without a tie -- and, in the meantime, tried not to tie himself down too much. The call could come at any hour.

And it came, indeed, in the middle of the night. He answered the door in a bathrobe to find Diana standing on his doorstep with rain beaded on the shoulders of her overcoat. "Sorry," she said, handing him an envelope. "Tickets to Paris, leaving in three hours. My car's waiting downstairs; I'll run you to the airport. We finally got a good tip on Mitchell's whereabouts." Elizabeth Mitchell, he recalled, his head clearing instantly as he fought off the sleep-fog and got back into agent mode. The brunette with the heart-shaped face.

Diana sat on his bed while he took a fast shower and swiped his toiletries into a bag. He wished he'd had a chance to call his parents one last time -- but no, he couldn't think that way. Not at the start of a job. He was already trying to slip into Lear's mindset, Lear's life. There was a pattern to these things, and part of it was to stop thinking about the people he left behind -- the few he had to leave. Any little slip could betray him. He was going to be dealing with people who had killed two guards with militarily precise headshots simply for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Last chance to back out.

But he knew he wasn't going to. He'd been committed since he opened the folder in Kramer's office and saw the faces of the dead.

 

***

 

Peter had never been to Paris. But then, neither had Lear. For the first two days he had nothing to do except sightsee on the Bureau's dime, so he figured he might as well enjoy it. He got a guidebook from his hotel and hit a few of the major tourist attractions -- killing time mostly, spinning his wheels, bumming around the city and learning to appreciate wine.

Finally he got a call from Diana: they'd turned up a cafe where Mitchell was known to take lunch. Peter took a deep breath after the conversation finished, and popped the card out of phone and stomped on it before dropping both in the nearest trash receptacle. He was Lear now; he carried nothing but Lear's ID, Lear's credit cards, Lear's phone. He'd be the next one to initiate contact with his handlers.

An Interpol agent would be setting up his opening with Mitchell. Back in DC, the Art Crimes team had produced different approach scenarios for each member of the gang. Mitchell was single, at least as far as the information they had on her, and came from a small town in the Midwest, so her approach scenario was "white knight". (Caffrey's was striking up a conversation over a shared interest in art; Ellis's would have been Peter presenting himself as the victim of a mugging, and so forth.) Peter arrived at the cafe first and got a cup of coffee to sip slowly over his English-language newspaper.

Mitchell arrived half an hour later. She was wearing a large hat but not otherwise disguised; Peter recognized her immediately with a little lurch in the pit of his stomach, like a dropping elevator. In the picture she'd been pretty, but in person she was _dynamic_. There was an aliveness to her, a kind of charisma that drew the eye.

She'd barely taken her seat and placed her order before an obviously drunk customer rose from his chair and began openly hitting on her. Peter looked up over his newspaper as if drawn by the commotion. Partly the point was to see how Mitchell would react to being bothered. This would never have worked on Ellis; she would have kneecapped him immediately. Mitchell, though, was trying to defuse the situation calmly without making a scene, as their intel had suggested.

"Hey," Peter said. He rose from his seat. "I don't think she wants to talk to you."

The drunk retorted with slurred cursing in French. Peter approached, trying to give off vibes of solidity without being too intimidating -- Elizabeth was still sitting down, and Peter knew he was a fairly big guy. "Do you want some help, miss? Uh -- mademoiselle, s'il vous plait --" And here he ran out of what little French he knew.

"Please," Elizabeth said politely in English.

"Get out of here, buddy. You're bothering her." Elizabeth in fact looked unbothered, but she didn't interfere and in fact wore a little smile as Peter chased the "drunk" Interpol agent off the premises. When he turned around, Elizabeth had pulled out a chair at her table. Peter pointed at himself questioningly; she pointed at the chair.

"English?" Peter asked hopefully as he joined her.

"American," she said, displaying very cute dimples. "And so are you, from your accent." She winked at him. "That wasn't very subtle, you know."

"What wasn't?" Peter asked, with a sinking feeling.

"Your little con. Was that a friend of yours, that guy?"

He couldn't have blown it _already._ Still, when the ship starts sinking, make it look intentional; that was the best way he'd found over the years for dealing with slip-ups and inconsistencies in his cover. Peter didn't have to feign his freeze-up, nor his rueful expression. "He's just a guy off the street. I paid him 20 Euros to give me an excuse to come talk to you."

"You could have just said hello instead."

Peter winced. "You're right. I never tried something like this before -- faking a scene to talk to a woman. Guess in the future I'll stick to what I'm good at."

"Which is?" Elizabeth asked cheerfully.

"Honesty," he lied. "Tell you the truth, I didn't think you'd talk to me. I figured you were a sophisticated French lady and I'm ..." He waved a hand at himself. "Me."

Elizabeth laughed. "Don't sell yourself short." She had a delightful laugh, and a little part of him died quietly at the knowledge that sooner or later, he was going to have to put handcuffs on her. He could already imagine the pretty blue eyes darkening with the knowledge that he was, from her perspective, a traitor.

_She's a criminal; she's earned those cuffs,_ he told himself. He was so tired of getting close to people and then having to reveal himself as the snitch in their organization. It was the job, but sometimes the job was rotten.

"What's wrong?" Elizabeth asked, leaning forward to peer at him. "I'm sorry. I've made you sad, and I don't know why."

"It's not you, it's me. I came here for a -- a fresh start, I guess. Trying to forget a few things that were too --" He stopped, and shook his head. "Maybe I decided to try again too soon."

"We can just talk," Elizabeth pointed out. "You seem like a nice guy. I'm in town for a while. No obligations."

_In town for a while, eh?_ "I'd like that," he said, and he didn't have to fake his smile. "Can I buy you a coffee, and talk?"


	2. Two

"I told you, Keller. You're out."

This announcement drew a curled lip and a sneer. "You're soft, Neal. Too damn soft. And you're collecting people around you who are weak and stupid. They're going to take you down with them."

They were leaning on the stone rail along the Pont du Carrousel, to all appearances nothing more than two gentlemen having a conversation while watching the boats on the Seine. One had to be close to see the veiled hostility in their body language, like two cats .

"We had one rule, Keller," Neal said softly, which provoked a snort from the man leaning on the rail next to him.

"You had a shit ton of rules, Caffrey. Your heists have as many rules as a nunnery."

"Guidelines," Neal corrected him. "Which can be bent or broken if we have to. We can hurt people if it's us or them. But _no one dies._ That's not negotiable. We aren't working with you anymore, and that's unanimous."

Well, mostly unanimous. At the very least, his crew recognized that having Keller around raised their risk considerably.

"Not a problem," Keller said. He pushed off from the stone wall with a hard thrust of his fist. "Hanging around with you losers is cramping my style anyway."

He turned and started to stroll along the bridge, toward Kate who was in her own casual water-watching pose at the far end. 

"Other way, Keller," Neal said, raising his voice. "When I said we were through, I meant it."

"You're gonna regret this, Neal." Keller flipped him off, but turned on his heel and went the other way.

Neal crossed to join Kate, who fell into step beside him. "Think we're going to have a problem?" she asked.

"I don't know." The group had split with Keller after the disastrous Memphis job in which two museum guards had died, but Keller had not stayed gone. They'd never dealt with an interpersonal crisis of this magnitude before. Alex had left because she wasn't interested in the group's mission and wanted to pull more profitable jobs on her own, but they'd remained friends. Sometimes they all did a heist together for old time's sake. Keller was clearly going to be a different matter.

"We should probably burn some of the safehouses and drop sites," Kate said. "Get new ones."

"I know," Neal sighed. "Do you want to handle that end of things?" He knew that organization wasn't his strong point, but luckily he had more detailed-oriented people around to delegate to. And for some reason the whole crew kept looking to him to tell them what to do. Which was mostly delegating responsibilities back to them. "I would ask Elizabeth, but she's been hard to get hold of lately."

"Oh, didn't you hear? Elizabeth has a boyfriend." Kate nudged him. "This is the point where you say, 'How nice for her!'"

"I'm sorry, it's just -- the Keller thing --" Neal ran a hand through his hair and smiled brightly. "How nice for her!" 

Kate laughed. 

"When did that happen?" he asked more seriously.

"Just recently," Kate said. "I met him briefly. He's ... I don't know. Quiet. Nice smile. Probably Elizabeth's type."

"Is he in the life?" It was the most important question when any of them dated outside the group. _Can we trust this person? Will they understand? Are we about to lose you to the straight life?_

"Elizabeth says so, but didn't go into details." Kate gave him a slightly less gentle shove. "Neal, she's an adult. She gets to have a sex life without any of us prying. We all have secrets."

"I know." Kate was right, and yet -- maybe it was just the entire thing with Keller making him so uneasy. Impermanence was the nature of the life they lived. People left, went to jail, got offers of more lucrative jobs elsewhere. They were a crew of thieves. It went with the territory.

Still, the idea of Elizabeth leaving his crew _hurt._

Maybe he'd have to meet this boyfriend.

 

***

 

But he didn't have to seek Elizabeth out. Two days later, she brought her boyfriend to meet _them._

Neal and his crew shared a number of houses, villas, and apartments scattered around the world. The residences were officially leased or owned in various names, none of them real. Everyone had places the others didn't know about -- Neal and Kate had a couple hideouts of their own, and Neal suspected all of the others did likewise. Elizabeth, by logical deduction, must have her own place in Paris, since she was almost never at the group's Parisian townhouse except to socialize. Still, that was typical when they were between jobs. People drifted in and out, sometimes pursuing their own side jobs, sometimes hanging out and relaxing.

Neal and Kate were the only people in the house when Elizabeth came in. Kate was upstairs napping, and Neal was painting on the balcony where the light was good.

"Neal?" Elizabeth strolled out onto the balcony, smiling. She looked relaxed, slightly sunburnt, and very happy. "Neal, I'd like you to meet Peter Lear."

Well, he'd planned on burning the place anyway, since Keller knew about it. "Hi," Neal said with his friendliest and fakest smile, holding out a hand. "You go by Peter? Pete?"

"Peter. And you must be Neal. Elizabeth told me about you."

Peter Lear had a firm handshake. Kate had said he seemed like Elizabeth's type, but Neal thought Kate was selling Elizabeth short, because a quick once-over gave him the impression that Peter Lear was all muscle and no brains. Well, if a fun fling with some boy-toy tourist made Elizabeth happy, it wasn't any of Neal's business -- at least, until she'd _made_ it his business by bringing Peter to meet the rest of them.

"Drinks?" Neal said. "Something to eat?"

He shepherded them into the kitchen, poured wine for everyone, and then dragged Elizabeth off to one side while Peter looked curiously around the lavishly furnished interior. "I really didn't think I had to tell people not to go inviting guests over to the _safehouse."_

"I wanted you to meet him," Elizabeth said, unperturbed by his anger. "I like him, Neal -- I mean, _really_ like him. We could use another person since we lost Keller."

Neal sighed and rubbed his temples. He wasn't _good_ at being a leader. "What's his skill set?"

"Burglary, mostly," Elizabeth said, and Neal stared at her.

"You brought us a _burglar?"_ He'd spoken loudly enough that Peter glanced at them. Neal tugged Elizabeth a little farther away. "A high-end cat burglar, _maybe ..."_

"Oh, don't, Neal. Sara was doing repo work when we met her, remember? And _I'd_ never so much as picked a lock. You're not the only person who gets to bring new people home. I _like_ Peter, more than I've liked anyone I've dated in a long time. I wanted him to meet my ... well, my family, I guess."

Great, what could he say to something like that? "He'd better not turn out to be a police informant," Neal muttered.

But it didn't take him long to realize that he liked Peter too. Despite the fact that Peter had an execrable sense of humor and no palate for good wine, he was smart and funny and ... _nice._ He still had enough sharp edges to him that he wouldn't be a pushover -- actually, Neal rapidly came to the conclusion that getting one over on Peter would be pretty hard. But he was also friendly and kind in a way that would be very hard to fake. Not impossible, of course -- Neal was in the faking-emotions business himself, so he wasn't going to downplay the skills of a good con artist. And sometimes he got the impression that Peter was definitely holding things back. Still, as Kate had said earlier, there was nobody in this line of business who wasn't hiding a few secrets.

And it was very obvious that Peter made Elizabeth happy. Neal had never seen her light up the way she did when Peter made a terrible joke and then grinned at her. Elizabeth was head over heels for the guy. And Neal was pretty sure it was mutual.

It was difficult not to be caught up in their infectious joy.

Kate wandered down later, and Sara came in a while after that. After a round of initial awkwardness -- they weren't used to having a new person in their midst -- Sara brought out board games, and it was ... _fun._

The townhouse's tall windows were dark, the city lights glittering brilliantly in the night, when Elizabeth and Peter slipped upstairs.

"I like him," Sara declared, hiding her smile in a glass of wine. "She can keep him."

"Kate?" Neal asked, twining his fingers with hers.

"I don't know," she said, looking after them. Kate was always the best of them at reading people, better even than Neal. "I like him, but I don't know if I'd trust him. There's something in his eyes I don't like."

 

***

 

Upstairs, in a bedroom lit only by the city's glow through the windows, Peter undressed Elizabeth gently. Later, much later, after she had fallen asleep, he lay awake beside her and stared out the window at the city's glow on the bellies of the clouds. 

He had meant to flirt, maybe go on a few dates. He'd been dreading it, honestly, because he knew he wasn't particularly good at that sort of thing. He could do shots with mobsters or schmooze crooked investment brokers, but put him in a restaurant with a beautiful woman and he turned into a tongue-tied mess.

But somehow it worked with Elizabeth. When he tied himself into verbal knots, she seemed to think it was cute. When he gave her a compliment that ended up coming out more like an insult, she smiled and took it in the spirit it was intended. Around her, he could just relax and be --

_Myself._

Except he _wasn't_ , not here. He was some fake approximation of himself; he was Peter Lear, burglar, not Peter Burke, FBI agent. He was here to arrest these people.

Elizabeth made a soft sound and snuggled close to him. Peter closed his eyes and tried not to hate himself.

It didn't work.


	3. Three

Their upcoming job was pretty simple, so Neal decided it might be a good test run for Peter.

Since Elizabeth had brought him home, he seemed to be settling into their group better than Neal had expected. Peter was not part of the family yet -- Kate was still holding out suspicion, and Mozzie refused to appear in Peter's presence without dark glasses and a series of toupés -- but Neal in particular had hit it off with him; they often stayed up 'til all hours talking about old heists and mutual friends-of-friends in the criminal underworld. Neal was delighted to find out that his group's heists were widely known.

"We're famous!"

"It's underworld fame," Peter said. "I don't know if I'd call it _fame_ as such ..."

"Criminals are the ones who _become_ famous," Neal retorted. "Does history remember Bonnie and Clyde or whoever took them down? Butch and Sundance, Jesse James -- Neal Caffrey and his Monuments Men --"

"We've had this discussion," Sara called from the kitchen, where she was making herself a sandwich. "We are _not_ calling ourselves that. I don't care if you like the historical reference. Besides, half of us are women."

"Also, the real Monuments Men were sanctioned by the government," Peter said.

Neal looked cheerful. "You've heard of them!"

"Sure," Peter said. "World War Two. They worked to protect historic sites from being bombed, to collect pillaged artwork and return them to their rightful owners."

"See?" Neal said happily. "There's precedent."

Peter's lips pressed together tightly, and he changed the subject. 

So that was Peter: holding many odd and contradictory opinions, believing in their cause one minute and putting it down the next, closed off in ways the others couldn't penetrate. There were times when Neal thought Kate and Mozzie might be right, that Peter was hiding things that would get them all killed.

But Neal wouldn't ever have done any of this if he were afraid of risk.

 

***

 

Their current target was a wealthy collector in Florence who had been buying, on the black market, antiquities looted from the National Museum of Iraq. Neal expected this would be a quick in-and-out retrieval. The guy seemed to be relatively new to the black market antiquities game, not a career criminal but a rich kid with way more money than sense. He didn't seem to have mob ties and his security was standard -- which was to say, excellent for your average CEO, but Neal and his crew could practically disarm it in their sleep.

Recon indicated that their target was out of town for a week, which left the property empty except for a caretaker couple who lived on the premises and did the housekeeping and groundswork around the place. Neal figured that he couldn't have asked for a nicer opportunity to see how the new guy did under pressure and whether he could work smoothly with the existing crew.

Today Sara was their driver, with Mozzie on communications. The other four were handling the break-in and loading of the artifacts. Kate started to pair up with Neal in their usual configuration, but he shook his head. "How about you and El? You work well together. And I want to watch Peter take down the security system."

They were in the back of the truck, suiting up while Sara drove them to the rendezvous site. Peter and Elizabeth, half hidden by empty crates that would soon be full of Iraqi antiquities, were having an inaudible conversation under the aural cover of the truck's rattling side panels. Still, Kate leaned on Neal's shoulder and spoke quietly. "You're putting the whole job in his hands? Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"No, but we may as well find out before we start relying on him, right?"

Kate punched him lightly in the arm. "I know you never believe me when I say this, but you're a damn good leader, Caffrey."

"If I am, it's only because I have amazing people to work with." Neal caught her in a brief kiss as he tightened the straps on her climbing harness.

The truck stopped; the engine died. "Radio check," Mozzie said.

"Good to go." Neal had worried it would be weird doing this without Keller, but then, they'd dealt with changes in the group before. It had just been Neal, Kate and Mozzie at first. Then there had been Alex, and Sara, and Elizabeth, and Keller. Alex had left. Now Keller was gone, and Peter was there.

_Neal Caffrey and his Monuments Men,_ Neal thought, and grinned to himself as he opened the doors and jumped down from the back of the truck. The night air was warm and cloying. The others followed him. Neal glanced at Peter, who looked serious and composed.

Kate wordlessly caught Elizabeth's elbow and gave her a gentle tug. El raised her eyebrows, looked at Peter. Kate shook her head. Just like that, the two women melted into the shadows.

"You and me, huh?" Peter murmured.

"Think of it as an audition," Neal whispered back, and grinned. "Ready to go, Butch?"

"I'd like to remind you what happened to Butch and Sundance in the end," Peter said, but he was grinning too, in a reluctant sort of way.

They moved silently through the shadows, through alleys and around back. Neal didn't bother to offer instructions, just stepped back to let Peter go at the courtyard's back gate. They'd all looked at the house blueprints and security system specs. On a tougher job, one of the B&E experts would take over -- Mozzie, Sara, or Neal. But this was a good test case for a newbie. Supposedly Peter had been a burglar. Now was the chance to see what he was made of.

And Neal wasn't disappointed. Peter hesitated for a few seconds, stone-faced. Neal couldn't tell what he was thinking, though he got the sense that whatever Peter was thinking about, he was thinking it _hard._ And then Peter snapped into action. And he _was_ good -- a little unpracticed, but deft. He didn't disarm the security system as fast as Neal himself could have done it, but definitely above average, his gloved hands sure and quick on the tools.

They slipped into the courtyard. No alarms, no lights coming on. "Tell Kate and El that the system's down and we're in," Neal murmured to Mozzie.

They met the women inside the house's rear hall. Their intel had been good; the first thing they encountered was a Sumerian vase on a polished rosewood stand. Kate leaned close to peer at it. "Doesn't even look like there's a pressure sensor," she whispered. "This guy doesn't know the first thing about security."

While the caretakers slept soundly, none the wiser, they loaded the truck through the back gate, quietly cleaning out the house one piece at a time. Neal knew they weren't going to get everything, but they had only so much time and so many crates. He found some of the rarer and more expensive items in a not-very-well-hidden safe, along with a diamond necklace which he confiscated because he thought Kate would like it. When he'd finished cleaning out the safe he took a five-euro note from his pocket, folded it deftly into a flower, and placed it in the center of the empty safe before closing it.

Outside, he showed Kate the necklace while Peter, Elizabeth and Sara checked that the load in the truck was properly stowed. "That's not an antiquity," Kate whispered, grinning.

"No, but I thought it would look nice on you. Turn around?"

Her hair was pinned up. He fastened the clasp against the bare length of her neck. "How does it look?" she asked, teasing out the diamonds so they glittered against her black turtleneck.

"Slightly less beautiful than the woman wearing it."

"C'mon, lovebirds, into the truck," Sara whispered at them impatiently.

They climbed in. Neal lit a battery-powered lantern and set it atop the nearest crate. He noticed Peter glance at the necklace sparkling on Kate's chest. Elizabeth reached for Peter's hand, but he didn't clasp it back; he just looked pensive. Then he crawled through the crates to reach Neal. "What about the couple that lives in the house?"

"What?" Neal asked, startled. He'd been mentally going over their plans for shipping the items once they got them back to the safehouse.

"The caretakers," Peter said. There was some emotion in his voice that Neal couldn't quite put a name to -- but whatever it was, Peter was biting down hard on it, his jaw tight-set. "They're going to be blamed for this."

The truck started with a rumble. "They'll be all right," Neal whispered back. "Cavallo isn't violent. He's not going to hurt them or anything."

"No, but odds are good he'll fire them for negligence." Peter's voice shook a little. He glanced at Kate; his eyes dropped to the necklace and he looked away quickly. "They didn't do anything. _We_ did."

El reached them, climbing over crates. "What's going on?"

"Peter's having an attack of nerves," Kate said. Defiantly, she stuffed the necklace under her collar. "A very badly timed one."

"It isn't nerves, it's not wanting innocent people to take the fall for something we did," Peter retorted. The truck moved out with a jolt; they all swayed against the crates. "You said you're different, Caffrey, that this outfit isn't like other crews. _Prove_ it." He sounded almost -- scared? Angry, certainly.

"Let me think about it, okay?" Neal, with Elizabeth's help, managed to get him sitting down. He was half afraid Peter was going to jump out of the truck and go running back to alert the caretakers.

"Peter, calm down," El murmured, running her hand over his shoulder. "We'll make it right, okay?"

Peter took a deep, shuddering breath and buried his face in his hands for a moment. When he raised his head again, his face was calm -- almost frighteningly so. "Sorry," he said, and his voice was too calm as well. "I've been out of the game for a while."

"We all have our things," Elizabeth said. She was still rubbing his shoulder. "When I first started out, I used to feel so weird about it. I'd take long showers, after. Like I was washing something off. I don't know what."

 

***

 

Later, much later, when the crates were packed and sealed and ready to be shipped by way of an intermediary to the National Museum, Neal wandered their Tuscany safehouse with a bottle of wine. Kate was asleep upstairs, naked but for the diamond necklace glittering between her collarbones. Mozzie was off doing who knows what, as usual. Elizabeth and Sara had gone somewhere to celebrate their success. Neal thought Peter had gone with them, but instead he found him gazing out the window, looking depressed and alone.

Neal poured him a glass of wine and handed it to him. "I thought about wiring a deposit to the Muraros' bank account, but I figured it would make them look even more guilty."

"The caretakers?" Peter asked. He reluctantly accepted the glass.

Neal nodded. "So Moz and I found them a good position with another family in Florence. References and everything. It all looks legit. They'll get the call offering them the position in the morning."

"It doesn't make up for getting them fired from a job they've held for fifteen years."

"No," Neal said. "It doesn't."

He seated himself on a nearby couch. This house was furnished in a sharply modern, black-and-white style that Elizabeth and Sara had chosen together. Neal liked the look, but it made him worry about spilling wine or smudging something. 

"However," he went on, raising the glass as if for a toast, "we have an entire truck full of antiquities that'll soon be on its way back to their home country. No one else could have done that, Peter. No government, certainly. Their hands are tied by the same laws they claim exist for our protection."

Peter sat down across from him. "You really _do_ give it back. Most of it, anyway."

"Of course we do."

"Why?" Peter asked. He'd already drained the wine glass; now he refilled it almost all the way up to the brim. It looked like he'd decided to get drunk tonight.

And Neal, for no reason he could name, found himself telling Peter the whole story. He told Peter how he'd been a thief for years, hooking up with Mozzie and later with Kate, working up to bigger and better jobs. He'd stolen things for the thrill and the challenge and, yeah, for the money. And sometimes just because they were there.

But ... it wasn't _just_ about stealing things. It was about appreciating them. Neal loved beauty; he loved history. He had a deep and visceral adoration for the grace and symmetry in the lines of a Greek vase or a Renaissance painting.

It started as a covetous desire to have and hold beautiful objects. But even when he had more treasures than any thief could dream of, there was still something empty about it.

"The majority of the world's great treasures are locked up where no one will ever see them. They're dug up to sell to private collectors on the black market, or they're buried in the warehouses of museums that bribed or stole them centuries ago. I came to see it like -- like caging beautiful wild creatures." Neal was more than half drunk now himself.

"You're setting them free?" Peter asked, sprawled on the couch.

"No ... yes ... I don't know. I started giving them back. Not to the people I stole them from, but to the people who made them in the first place. Their descendants, rather."

He'd taken Greek statues back to Greece, Egyptian treasures to Cairo, gold from a sunken Spanish galleon to Madrid. He'd left a collection of priceless Tang Dynasty sculpture at a Beijing museum.

"I got interested in looking up the provenance of things," he explained to Peter, who listened quietly with his serious gaze fixed on Neal. "I tried to find out where they'd come from and who had taken them, and where they _should_ go. Not everything had a proper home. But there were a lot of things that had been taken by force or deception, or dug up by treasure hunters. And then I started looking up items in museums and private collections, and finding out how many of them were technically stolen ..."

"Obviously you don't give it _all_ back," Peter said. He sounded conflicted, as if he were struggling with himself. "I mean, you don't exactly seem to be strapped for cash. And there's a necklace upstairs that belongs to someone who isn't Kate."

"No ..." Neal agreed. "I'm a thief. _We're_ thieves, you and me. I'm not going to pretend it's anything other than what it is. But we're also doing something the nations of the world will not. We're taking things that were stolen from their countries by other thieves, and putting them back where they belong."

"I need to think about it," Peter said. He was drowsy now, half-drunk and relaxed. Some of the tension had wound out of him. "This ... isn't what I thought it would be." And then he closed his mouth, as if he thought he'd said too much.


	4. Four

The worst part was that Peter liked them. Or maybe _like_ was too small a word for what he felt, but he couldn't bring himself to think what else it might be.

He'd done four jobs with them now. He kept telling himself he was biding his time, gathering intel, getting ready to close the net. Except he kept backing off from actually doing anything that _would_ close the net. He told himself it was a matter of being far out of his jurisdiction and not having sufficient backup. He could arrest Neal -- actually, at this point, he had _more_ than enough to put Neal away. But the rest of them would slip away.

He told himself to wait, that he needed more time.

The hell of it was -- as much as he hated to admit it, as much as he tried to convince himself otherwise ... he agreed with the general principle behind what they were doing. He wished they were doing it a different way, going about it with courts and lawyers rather than taking the law into their own hands. Vigilante action was shortsighted, misguided and likely to end in -- well, things like the disaster in Memphis.

But they had a point that a lot of the stuff in museums and collections was stolen in the first place, or otherwise ill-gotten through various means. As an FBI agent, he was supposed to return stolen property, not defend it.

It tied him in knots if he let himself think about it too much.

They _were_ still thieves, they _did_ use their heists to finance their opulent lifestyle ... but he'd actually had some success at curbing their excesses. Neal, Elizabeth, Sara and even occasionally Kate had turned out to be increasingly receptive to disapproving glares when their light fingers started to pick up some small item that wasn't on the approved theft list. Even Mozzie, though he clearly thought Peter was an idiot who was going to drive them into the poorhouse, had reluctantly agreed to some of Peter's suggestions to help stop collateral damage to bystanders -- guards, employees and others who might be in the wrong place at the wrong time were carefully sent away, paid off or otherwise removed from harm's way.

Peter was making them better than they had been before. Which was not _at all_ what he was there to do.

But now they were back in the U.S. for a while. This not only put him back in his own jurisdiction, but gave him the opportunity to meet Diana face to face, rather than having brief (and heavily censored on his end) conversations on burner phones or via emails to dummy accounts. Generally, all members of Neal's crew had a lot of autonomy. Peter being gone for an afternoon on personal business didn't raise eyebrows -- at the beginning it might have, maybe, but they seemed to trust him now.

The more fools they.

He and Diana met on a park bench, where he read a newspaper and she casually sat down next to him to fake-feed the pigeons. Sensing a trap, the pigeons -- canny city birds that they were -- stayed well away from her dribbled handfuls of crumbs. 

"You look ... I'm not quite sure how you look," she said. "Are you all right? Do you need us to pull you out? I can talk to Kramer --"

"No," Peter said. "I'm okay. I just need more time. To ... get in deeper."

He was already in deep enough. He knew where the next heist was going to be; Neal had talked to him about it, and was probably already there. Their next heist was an exhibit of Native American artifacts in St. Louis. He could tell Diana. They could set up a sting.

And that would be the end of them. Of Neal, of Elizabeth ... of dancing under the stars, of board games played by soft lamplight. Of any chance he might have had at redeeming them rather than watching them vanish into the morass of the legal system ... or slipping through the FBI's fingers, and going to ground someplace he'd never find them.

_I'll give myself some time to decide,_ he thought. _I don't have to choose yet. I can give the word and the FBI will scramble a team at the exhibit. It's not too late ..._

"It's really affecting you this time," Diana said. "They sent you in too soon. Peter, I don't like it."

"I'll be okay," he said, and stood up, folding the newspaper. "Take care of yourself."

"You too," she said.

 

***

 

He and Neal ended up in St. Louis in advance of the whole group. Elizabeth had taken off on a vague errand; Peter, reading between the lines of the hints she'd dropped, guessed that she was visiting her parents at some undisclosed location in the Midwest area. Kate and Sara were either visiting friends in New York or running a small side job of their own -- or possibly doing both at once. Mozzie ... was doing whatever Mozzie did, which Peter thought he probably shouldn't ask too many questions about.

So he and Neal cased the exhibit together. The tribe, Neal explained quietly as they wandered around the cases in the museum, had been trying to get the items back for years, but it was tied up in the courts and it looked like it wasn't going to go their way; most of the items had been dug up on private land and therefore, according to U.S. law, belonged to their finder.

"Aren't we just going to land them in a load of hot water if we dump a load of stolen goods on them, then?" Peter asked afterwards, over dinner at a very good hole-in-the-wall restaurant that Neal had located. (He seemed to have an unerring instinct for that kind of thing.)

"Only if the wrong people find out about it," Neal said. "Mozzie's been talking to some people he knows in the tribe. They're cautiously backing us."

_Great,_ Peter thought. _It's official. I am now the worst FBI agent in history._

Over dinner, Neal laid out his whole plan. The exhibit was a traveling one, at the end of its tour. It was just a matter of waiting until it was packed up, then quietly removing the crated items at some point in transit. If they were subtle enough and doctored the paperwork on both ends, it would be days before anything was discovered missing -- and possibly weeks, months, or even years, depending on whether the museum that was supposed to receive the materials was too backed up to process them immediately. 

_It would be so easy,_ Peter thought. _I know where and when; I know most of the details of how. All I have to do is make a quick phone call. In other words, do my JOB._

He had very nearly made the decision by the time they walked back to their hotel. He was going to do it. His conscience be damned -- he'd been sent in to do a job, and he would do it properly, even if it ripped his heart out.

And then Neal, as if determined to foul up Peter's plans even if he didn't know about them, came down with food poisoning, and Peter spent most of the night sitting up with him, offering him water and weak tea, and trying to find something distracting to watch on late-night TV.

"So you're feeling fine, then," Neal moaned. He was huddled in a pathetic lump on the bed. The suave, debonair thief had completely vanished. Peter had never seen Neal look so miserable and flattened -- or so utterly human and vulnerable.

"So far," Peter said. "I just had a burger, though. Usually they can't mess up a burger."

"Please," Neal whimpered, burying his head in the pillow. "Don't talk about food."

"Sorry."

"The irony of it all is that I've traveled around the world and was _fine._ And now this hits me in my own backyard, so to speak."

After another trip to the bathroom, Neal stumbled to the chair next to Peter and flopped down in it. Peter glanced at him. He was very pale, with his hair sweat-plastered to his forehead and dark circles under his eyes.

"You'd probably feel better in bed."

"I'd just have to get up again," Neal muttered, slouching in the chair.

"Neal, go to bed. Try to sleep."

When Neal didn't move, Peter got up and tried maneuvering him gently in the direction of the bed. He would have given up if Neal had resisted, but he came willingly enough. "I'm sure this is a fun way to spend your Friday night," Neal mumbled as Peter deposited him in a limp heap on the bed. "You can go back to your room. I'll be fine."

"It's okay." Peter sat next to him on the edge of the bed and tugged the sheet up over him. "I can sleep all day tomorrow. Criminal's hours, right?"

"That's true," Neal conceded sleepily. "The hours _are_ good." He stared vacantly into the distance for a while. Peter had switched off the lamp by the bed earlier, so his face was half in shadow. Finally he said, "I grew up here, you know. It's ... odd, I guess, to be back."

Peter was completely silent for a moment, not sure how to respond. There was nothing in Neal's FBI file before he was 18. He'd appeared out of nowhere. They didn't even know if Neal Caffrey was his real name.

But, of course, _this_ Peter -- Peter Lear -- didn't know that, had no idea of the magnitude of the secret Neal had just revealed to him. "Really?" Peter said as noncommittally as possible. "I'm from upstate New York, myself. Never actually been to the Midwest 'til now."

And then he had a brief moment of panic when he tried to remember if _Peter Lear_ was from upstate. Usually they tried to stick as close as possible to Peter's actual background to make slips less likely, but he honestly couldn't remember now. He was blurring the lines between himself and his cover, forgetting which details went where. That was bad.

"Yeah, we had a little apartment over in -- well, it doesn't matter now." Neal's voice was sleepy and relaxed. "There was a pool hall on the way home from school. I used to hustle the adults for pocket money. I wonder if it's still there."

Peter laughed. "I bet you were good at it." He could imagine that: little Neal with all his charm and seeming innocence, and his sharp mind and lack of respect for the rules ... yeah, he would have been a little terror.

"Of course I was good at it." Neal sounded offended that there could be any doubt.

"Didn't your parents ever notice?" Peter asked. He wondered how many details he could dredge up without being too obvious. Knowing Caffrey's place of residence and a few telling details, they might be able to complete his dossier. Find his birth certificate. Find relatives, if any still lived.

"It was just me and my mom by that time," Neal said, and Peter quietly ticked off another item on the FBI clipboard in his head. Then Neal added, "We were in Witness Protection," and all of Peter's preconceived ideas flew out of his head.

"Don't tell anyone," Neal said quickly. "Even Mozzie doesn't know that. Kate does ... I didn't really go into details, though."

"I ... don't know much about that kind of life," Peter said. He had no idea what else to say. He was torn between telling Neal to keep talking, and wanting to cover Neal's mouth with his hand. _Don't you know you can't trust me? That everything you tell me goes straight to the FBI?_

Except that hadn't been true in a while.

"It was a strange life," Neal murmured. "I always kind of knew something wasn't right, you know? Except I was so young when we went into WitSec that I didn't remember my life before that. I grew up wanting -- I don't know, it seems so stupid now, but I wanted to be a cop. I had my heart set on it."

Peter wanted to grab him and shake him. _Why didn't you? If you had, I wouldn't be sitting here, we wouldn't be having this conversation; you'd be gainfully employed somewhere and I'd be back in DC ..._ "What changed?"

After a long silence, Neal said softly, "Me. I changed." He rolled over and turned his back to Peter.

Peter hesitated a while before putting a hand on his shoulder and finding it knotted with tension. He rubbed it awkwardly and felt Neal slowly begin to relax.

"You can't change the past," Peter said. "All you can change is the future."

"Thank you for that moment of fortune cookie zen." But Neal didn't sound upset, just drowsily amused.

"Think you can sleep now?"

"I don't know," Neal mumbled. "If I get up and bolt for the bathroom, you'll be the first to know, I guess."

A little later, when Peter thought he had fallen asleep, Neal said quietly, "Peter, you're my friend, aren't you?"

Peter's throat tightened. It took him a moment to be able to say, "Why?"

"I don't know, it's just, this business we're in -- you never know about people. I thought Keller was my friend too." Neal laughed a little, into the pillow. "I don't know. Forget I said anything."

Peter swallowed hard, and then he managed to say, "Yeah. I'm your friend."

 

***

 

After Neal fell asleep, Peter wandered out into the hall. He had some vague intention of returning to his room -- he was gritty-eyed with exhaustion, but also too wound up to sleep. There was a small lounge area at the end of the hall, with a cluster of comfortable chairs and a window looking out onto the city lights. Peter sank into one of the chairs and rested his head in his hands.

He felt like he was being ripped in half.

Somehow going through with the heist on American soil felt like more of a betrayal than the thefts in Europe. There, at least, he was legitimately doing his job. He didn't have backup or even the legal standing to arrest them, since he had no evidence that they'd committed any crimes within his jurisdiction.

But here, it was different. Here, he could whip out his badge and Mirandize all of them as soon as they stole their first crate. He could call Diana and arrange to have a fully armed team of FBI agents waiting and ready to swoop down as soon as he gave the word.

_It's not much of a heist,_ he thought. _Compared to most of what they've stolen in the past, the actual monetary value isn't that much. I should wait for something bigger, something we can really nail them on -- catch them red-handed ..._

And all along he knew he was lying to himself.

_If you go through with this,_ he told himself, _you've crossed a line you can't come back from. You'll be betraying everything you believe in._

He had a sudden, overwhelming urge to call Elizabeth. He just wanted to hear her voice ... to hear her laugh. She always made him feel better.

But it was four in the morning, and El was in the same time zone as Peter, staying with her parents. He couldn't wake her up just because he needed reassurance that he wasn't a bad person.

... and anyway, El was the _last_ person he should be looking for reassurance from. She was one of Neal's gang. If she knew who he really was, the soft sweet look she reserved only for him would change to betrayed anger.

Peter ground the heels of his hands into his aching eyes. 

"Do what's right," he muttered to himself. 

The problem was, he didn't know what _was_ right anymore. Everything seemed wrong. There was no option that wouldn't violate his principles or hurt someone.

It wasn't the first time he'd become emotionally compromised on an undercover job. And he knew what he had to do. It was always the same thing.

He took out his phone.

The East Coast was an hour ahead, and Diana was an early riser. If she wasn't up already, she would be soon. He could leave her a voice mail, sketch out the broad outline of Neal's plan.

He began to dial, then stopped at a soft ding from the elevator. His head jerked up and he slipped the phone guiltily into his pocket. It was probably just another guest reeling back to their room after a party somewhere. Still, there were so few people abroad at this hour that he had a panicked fear it was one of Neal's crew -- Sara or Kate, returning from New York? Elizabeth?

It wasn't any of them, though. This was a stranger -- head down, hands in pockets. Peter relaxed and reached into his pocket for the phone again, then hesitated when he saw the newcomer stop outside Neal's room.

_A drunken guest ... mistaking someone else's room for his own?_

And the guy wasn't walking like he was drunk. Peter rose and sauntered down the hallway.

The stranger hesitated as Peter approached. 

"Hey," Peter said. "Can I help you with something?"

"I don't know you, friend," the stranger said. "I suggest you keep walking."

"I suggest you have the wrong room," Peter said, slipping a hand into his pocket. He wasn't actually carrying, but the gesture _looked_ threatening -- at least he hoped so.

This time the newcomer turned to face him, and Peter's throat went dry. He'd seen that face before on a mug shot. This was Matthew Keller.

No one in Neal's gang talked about Keller much. The topic had come up just enough for Peter to know that Keller had been kicked out after the Memphis job. Which didn't make it right, and didn't garner anything approaching justice for the dead men -- and, ominously, left the door open for Keller to come back into their lives someday.

Like now.

"Yeah?" Keller said, his voice soft and threatening. "This your room, then?"

"Why don't we go downstairs and discuss it," Peter said. Keller's hand had dropped to his jacket pocket, and Peter could see, by the way it hung, that while _Peter_ might not have a gun, Keller did.

"I don't think we have anything to talk about. Unless ..." Keller's eyes were sharp as chips of ice. "Do you know the guy in this room? Are you -- haaaa." It was somewhere between a laugh and a drawn-out sigh. "You _are._ You're Caffrey's .... what, hired muscle? Does he keep a bodyguard now?"

"I'm part of the team, yes," Peter said, and tasted guilt on the back of his tongue.

"Caffrey recruits high-end criminals, not common hirelings. You don't have the look."

Peter was still trying to decide how to respond when there was a muffled thump from inside the room and then rattling at the door handle before Neal opened it. He was barefoot and sleep-tousled, and still unhealthily pale. "Since you're here, why don't you come in," he said wearily. "Or stand there in the corridor talking about the life, that's fine too, it's not like it's a _secret_ or something."

"Caffrey," Keller said with a faint smile. "You look terrible."

"And you're still your usual charming self." Neal turned his back and slouched to the bed, where he flopped onto it. Peter shadowed Keller into the room.

"Not too bad," Keller said. He went straight to the minibar. "This is all you got? Caffrey, you're a terrible host. Anyone else want a drink?"

Neal didn't bother answering. Peter raised a hand to indicate "no". He wasn't sure anymore whether this hour should be considered terribly late, or unpleasantly early; in either case, his head was starting to ache from lack of sleep.

Keller poured a tiny bottle of Jack Daniels into a water glass. "So word on the street is you're planning a job."

"It's not your kind of job," Neal said without raising his head from the pillow. "What we're stealing is hardly worth anything, Keller. You wouldn't be interested."

Keller leaned a hip on the dresser as he sipped his drink. "Why don't you let me decide about that?"

"Hey," Peter said. "He's telling you to get lost."

Keller gave him a cool look. "Don't think I asked you. Or caught your name." 

"Peter -- Lear." God, he'd _almost_ slipped. It was the first time since he'd been with Neal's gang that he'd caught himself on the verge of using his real name. He wasn't sure why; maybe it was his almost-call to Diana earlier, or maybe seeing Keller's face had sent him back to the first time he'd seen Keller's picture, in Kramer's office, all those weeks ago.

"Well, Peter Lear," Keller said, "why don't you butt out. This doesn't concern you."

"I know who you are," Peter said. "You're Matthew Keller. I've heard about you. And the way I hear it, you aren't welcome around here."

Keller's smile was thin and sharp-edged. "Caffrey, is that so? I'm hurt."

"God," Neal muttered, and pulled his pillow over his head. "I'm really not in the mood for this. Look, Keller, we'll get everyone together tomorrow and talk about it, all right? But only if you _go away."_

Keller drained the glass and set it on the dresser. "Nice doing business with you." He strolled towards the door, on a trajectory that forced Peter to step back to avoid being bumped into. "See you later," Keller said, and left.

Peter threw the deadbolt and put the chain on.

"So," he said. "That's Keller, huh."

Neal groaned. "Yes. Charming, isn't he?"

Peter sat beside him on the bed. "I don't get a good feeling off him," he said carefully.

Neal rolled his head to the side, revealing a glimmer of a blue eye. "Keller is C4 with a ticking timer. He's petty, vindictive and dangerous. He's also good at what he does. It might be safer to just let him come along."

Two dead museum guards in Memphis. Peter's stomach plunged like he'd just taken a drop on a roller coaster. "Think that's a good idea?"

"I don't know," Neal mumbled. "I can't _think._ I need to sleep."

He drifted off not long after that; his breathing evened out and he went limp. Peter sighed and rose from the bed, stretching out the kinks. He should go back to his room and sleep. He should call Diana, too.

But leaving Neal alone with Keller running around the building didn't feel right. Rather than leaving, he found a comfortable chair and settled in with a book. The only sound in the room was Neal's quiet breathing. Peter tried to keep his exhaustion-blurred gaze focused on the printed page, but his eyes kept drifting back to Neal, visible from this angle mostly as a sprawl of slack limbs and tangled dark hair.

_I don't know who I am anymore, thanks to you._

Peter wished he could hate him for that.


	5. Five

By the following evening the whole gang was in town, so they congregated in Neal's hotel room to discuss the heist -- and to discuss Keller' reappearance. Neal was out of bed again by this time, still looking slightly pale, but starting to bounce back to his usual energetic self. He had picked up the notepad that had come with the room and, while the conversation went on, tore off sheets and folded them into a little origami menagerie, lining them up neatly on the arm of the chair he was sprawled in.

"Why does Keller even want in on this?" Sara asked. "This isn't his kind of heist. There's no profit in it."

"I think he just misses being part of the group," Neal suggested, folding the ears on a perky-looking origami cat. "He's caught up with us and he wants back in. This job is his in."

"Well, we're not going to let him." Sara glanced around at the uncertain faces. "We're not, are we?"

"No," Peter said, since no one else was saying it. " _No._ Absolutely not."

"Why do _you_ feel so strongly about it?" Mozzie demanded. "You don't even know the guy."

"I've heard all of you talk about him. He's dangerous. He has absolutely no qualms about hurting people." Peter was appealing mostly to Neal, the one he really needed to convince. "When I got involved in this, I understood there wasn't going to be any violence."

"You have a lot of scruples for a burglar," Mozzie said suspiciously.

"Maybe we should give Keller a chance," Elizabeth spoke up. She was leaning on Peter, one arm draped over his shoulder. He gave her a betrayed look, which she ignored. "Maybe he's changed. Maybe he'll follow our rules now that he understands the consequences for breaking them."

"This is Keller," Sara protested. "Matthew Keller. He's always been like that and he's always gonna be."

Peter hadn't expected support to come from that quarter, while Neal and Elizabeth were unswayed. But then, Sara was the newest member of the group next to himself. Those who'd been with Neal's gang longer looked less convinced; it was clear that they still thought of Keller as one of "them", regardless of what he'd done.

"In a way," Kate said, "this job is a good test case _because_ there's no margin on it. We can test the waters with this, and maybe let him in on bigger jobs later, if this one goes well."

Even Mozzie crumbled eventually. "Fine. One job. If he's still the same violent jerk he's always been, we walk away and don't look back."

"You're making a mistake." Peter couldn't believe that he was failing to convince _Elizabeth_ of all people. "Come on, El, you can't possibly be okay with this. He killed two people!"

"I know. I haven't forgotten. But ..." She kissed the top of his head. "I think everyone deserves a second chance. No one is irredeemable."

"Some people are," Peter muttered, but he was shaken to his core. Because he wanted to agree with her, if only for what it implied about himself. No one was beyond redemption. Everyone deserved a second chance. And they did, they _did_ , but ...

But ...

"I need air," Peter muttered, and stalked out of the room.

Elizabeth found him eventually in a nearby park, sitting with his head in his hands. She settled next to him and put a hand on his shoulder. "Peter, it'll be all right. I know things went bad once when we were working with Keller, but we'll be more careful this time."

"People could die, El," Peter said without looking up. "Security guards. Innocent bystanders. How can you justify that?"

She rested her head on his shoulder. "Keller already knows about the heist. If we don't let him come along, he could blow the whole thing open, get us all arrested."

"So call it off. We don't have to go through with it."

El only shook her head. 

Peter gave it another try with Neal later, as the group was putting together their final plans. "Neal, maybe this whole thing -- Keller showing up, you getting sick, all of it -- is just a signal that things will go bad. Let's back off. Aim for a different target."

"Everything's already in place," Neal protested. "We have the trucks, and all the arrangements for transferring the items are in place. This is a really simple job. Even Keller can't mess it up."

But he wouldn't quite meet Peter's eyes. Neal knew Keller firsthand, and Peter had read his file; they both knew that Keller didn't need a reason to be violent. He'd even killed his partners before.

And they were scared, Peter realized, looking around at the group. The redemption thing was part of it; all of them believed they could end up in Keller's position. But they also knew that Keller could get any of them arrested or killed -- and might be willing to do it.

How many times, after all, had Peter and his team flipped a disgruntled former gang member on the others?

He could have Keller picked up, he realized suddenly. They wouldn't have enough to keep him, not without catching him in the act of something. But it might put the fear of the police into Neal's gang, enough to make them call off the upcoming heist and decide Keller was bad news ...

And if he did it, he'd be doing it for no other reason than to give them an opportunity to get away.

_What you need to do,_ he told himself, _is have the FBI standing by, and catch them all in the act. Then they go to prison, Keller included, and you can go on with your life._

His life. An apartment in DC where he stayed so rarely that it had never felt like home. A series of jobs like this one, getting close to people only to have them arrested.

He often struggled with that aspect of it, but he couldn't remember an assignment that had made him doubt himself so thoroughly. The idea of Neal in prison, or, worse, Elizabeth ... it made him sick to contemplate it.

_But what choice do I have?_

"Hey," Neal said. "Don't look like that." He pressed something into Peter's hand. "This is for you."

Peter frowned at the scrap of paper, turning it over. It was a sheet from the hotel notepad, folded into the shape of a crane.

"It's for luck," Neal said brightly.

"This isn't a game," Peter said. But he tucked the crane carefully into his wallet. Con artists were a notoriously superstitious lot; maybe it was rubbing off on him.

Along with a whole lot of other things.

 

***

 

Getting ready for a heist was not unlike preparing for an FBI sting. A similar heaviness hung in the air -- a coiled, waiting energy. There was equipment to check, maps to examine, and each person needed to go over their part in the plan.

From somewhere Kate had obtained a security guard uniform in Peter's size. He nervously examined himself. It was a little tight around the shoulders, but fairly convincing. His name tag said JOHN.

"Keller, what the hell?" Neal said.

Peter looked up. Keller had just sauntered in wearing a museum security guard uniform, identical to Peter's.

"You're not going in as the guard," Neal said. "Peter's the guard. You're helping load the trucks. That's the plan."

"I don't remember anyone consulting _me_ about the plan." There was a lazy, dangerous drawl to Keller's voice. "No one asked _me_ if I wanted to load the trucks. I'd rather be a guard."

Neal looked unhappy. "Peter's going to be certifying the trucks for the benefit of the marks. What's _your_ part in it?"

Keller shrugged. "I'll help him." 

The brief smile he gave Peter didn't touch his eyes. Peter could tell Keller had taken a dislike to him, though he wasn't whether that was because Keller suspected him of something or just because he'd taken Keller's place in the group. 

"We'll be partners, Lear," Keller added sardonically. "Come on. It'll be fun."

Neal's unhappy look deepened, but he didn't protest. The trouble, Peter thought, was that all of them were used to operating with a great deal of personal autonomy. They didn't really have anything to fall back on when one of them turned out to be poisonous.

And Keller _was_ poisonous. Even if tonight's operation went off without a hitch, working with Keller was going to bite them badly in the near future. Peter always listened to his gut, and right now his gut was telling him very loudly that Keller was a time bomb waiting to go off.

"Can we talk?" he asked, and without waiting for an answer, steered Keller to a quiet corner. This got some curious looks from the others, which Peter tried to ignore.

"Isn't it embarrassing when someone else shows up to the party wearing the same outfit?" Keller said. His smile curled slowly around his teeth like a snake unwinding.

"Look," Peter said. "I know you don't like me. I think I probably know why. But they're taking a big chance on you. Neal especially. They could've left you twisting in the wind. Instead they're letting you back in."

Keller's smile thinned. "Oh, was I supposed crawl on my belly and wallow in gratitude? I guess I missed that memo."

"I don't care what you do." Peter could feel the muscles in his jaws tightening. "But I need you to understand that if you hurt them in any way, I'll be your enemy. And you don't want that."

Keller chuckled softly without opening his mouth. "I'm scared, Lear. See me shaking."

"I don't care if you're scared or not. I just want you to listen. We can work together, Keller. But if anyone gets hurt -- especially if one of these kids gets hurt -- I'll --"

"You'll do what?" He leaned close enough that Peter could feel the brush of Keller's breath. "Tell me, Peter Lear, what'll you do?"

_Arrest you,_ Peter wanted to say. _Throw you in a cell so deep you'll never see the light of day again._

Except he didn't dare say it, and he wasn't even sure that was what he wanted to say at all. He was so far from his entire support system here, connected to the FBI by only the thinnest of threads. He had no badge, no authority. He could not call upon the weight of the state to back him up.

He was only a man -- a tired, angry man, worried about his friends.

"If they get hurt or worse because of you, Keller," Peter said softly, "God help you."

He turned and stalked away, shutting himself in the bathroom because only there could he avoid the curious and, in Elizabeth's case, sympathetic stares. He sat on the closed lid of the toilet until he felt calmer, then splashed some water on his face. The man looking back at him from the mirror was a stranger, hollow-eyed and cold, wearing an unfamiliar uniform like a child playing dressup.

_I don't know who I am anymore._

Peter pulled out his phone and punched all but the last digit of Diana's number. He stared at it for a long time before putting it away.


	6. Six

At 8:30 p.m., two trucks pulled up to the loading dock behind the museum. It was a clear, crisp autumn night. The stars were out and the temperature was dropping. There might be frost before morning.

The security guard on the loading dock were somewhat confused, because the trucks were here for the crates going to Texas, and weren't those supposed to be shipped out in the morning? But, no, apparently the date had been moved up. Another pair of museum guards -- Peter and Keller -- came down to look at the paperwork and reassured him that they'd already been informed of the change and it was nothing to worry about.

They'd gotten into position a bit earlier so they'd be at the museum when the rest of the gang showed up. Keller was being polite, in a smarmy and exaggerated kind of way, but Peter figured he'd take that over open hostility.

Keller was also armed. This made Peter more nervous than anything else about the heist. However, the security firm that the museum contracted with provided armed guards, so it would look odd if they weren't. Peter had taken the precaution of removing all the bullets from his own gun -- doing so made him nervous, but carrying a loaded weapon into a situation where no good consequences could come of anything he might do with that weapon made him much more nervous. He contemplated ways of trying to unload Keller's gun too, or switch his with Keller's. If he had Neal's skill at sleight of hand, he might be able to do it.

The urge to call Diana hovered in the back of his mind, a constant nagging anxiety. He was rapidly approaching a line that, once crossed, he couldn't come back from.

"You're new, aren't you?" the real security guard asked him, looking suspicious.

Peter gave him a mental nod of approval. At any other time, he'd be glad to see someone doing their job alertly and well. Tonight, however ...

"We're on the day shift," Keller said smoothly.

The guard seemed to accept this, but Peter noticed him giving them both curious looks.

Meanwhile the rest of the team were getting the trucks ready. They had opted to use two smaller trucks rather than one large truck for the move. The small trucks would be more maneuverable, less conspicuous and easier to conceal. Still, it slowed the loading process considerably. There was already another truck at the loading dock and a few workers unloading its contents, so they would have to do their trucks one at a time. Neal maneuvered his truck into position, and he and Kate went in search of their cargo. Sara and Elizabeth waited with the other truck.

There were delays while they located the crates, and more delays while they filled out forms (with mostly fake information). Peter tried not to hover too conspicuously. He also tried to keep Keller in sight as much as possible. On the surface, this wasn't too different from any number of times he'd had to help with something illegal while undercover -- better, actually, than some of the things he'd had to do while he was working with the mob. Still, his nerves jangled, especially when he noticed Neal very stealthily place something tiny and white on top of one of the crates they weren't taking. A paper flower, as per usual. Peter resisted the urge to go over there and crumple it up. To Neal and the rest of them, the whole thing was a giant game. But Peter knew how this game ends -- how it _always_ ends: in handcuffs and guns and the words _FBI! Freeze!"_ He'd ended it himself for a lot of other people.

Keller caught Peter's eye and wandered over, thumbs hooked through his gunbelt. He leaned close enough to speak without being overheard, and murmured through a sharp-edged smile, "You keep looking at me like you think I'm about to steal the silver."

"I think I'd be a fool to turn my back on you," Peter replied, opting for honesty over prudence.

Keller's smile gained a bit of extra edge. "You know what I think? You're hiding something."

"We're all hiding something." Peter couldn't help noticing that Neal kept glancing their way, although he was too far away to overhear their conversation.

"Touché, Lear," Keller murmured. "But it's more than the usual closet skeletons with you, isn't it? There's something you don't want Caffrey and company to know about." 

He took another step closer, bringing him inside Peter's sphere of personal space. Peter had to struggle not to step backwards and yield ground. His heart raced -- did Keller _know?_ He couldn't. And yet, he seemed terribly confident. "If you have a problem with me," he said, keeping his voice calm through sheer force of will, "then let's talk about it. But not here. Not in the middle of a job."

"Oh, we _will_ talk about it," Keller said, the words dark with menace.

"Hey, you two." It was the security guard again, and this time he was resting one hand on the butt of his gun. Peter's heartbeat kicked up another notch. "I knew there was something funny going on here. I just called the company and they don't have a record of either one of you. How about we have a little chat?"

 _And this is how things fall apart._ Peter raised a placating hand while flashing a glance at Neal, but Neal, for a change, wasn't looking in their direction.

"This is all a misunderstanding," Keller said calmly.

Out of the corner of his eye, Peter was aware of Keller making a swift movement. Peter spun in Keller's direction. He'd drawn his gun, bringing it to bear on the security guard's face. Peter lunged for him and slapped Keller's arm, knocking the gun off target. The bullet winged the guard's arm rather than hitting him in the head.

Snarling wordlessly, Keller whirled and shot Peter twice in the chest, point blank.

It felt like a hard impact, shock more than pain. Keller's rage changed to visible surprise, as if even he hadn't expected that to happen. His startled face was the last thing Peter saw as his knees folded and he pitched to the concrete floor of the loading dock.

 

***

 

Neal was helping Mozzie manhandle a crate into the back of the truck when the gunshots rang across the loading dock.

There was a moment's frozen shock. No one moved as Peter crumpled slowly to the floor. Even Keller was frozen in place. Then Elizabeth screamed, "Peter!" and that broke the tableau. Commotion, panic and yelling broke out all over the loading dock. Kate appeared out of nowhere and hit the guard in the back of the head with both fists clasped together. He lurched to his knees, not completely unconscious but temporarily stunned. Kate cursed in pain, shaking her hands.

Elizabeth and Neal scrambled forward to pick up Peter, one under each arm. He was conscious and gasping, with blood rapidly soaking through his shirt. Neal paused in a moment's panicked indecision -- _where to go?_ The civilian workers had all fled at the sound of gunshots, but surely they'd called the police --

Mozzie appeared around the end of the truck he and Neal had been loading and gestured them frantically forward. With the back open and the loading ramp down, Neal and Mozzie's truck wasn't going anywhere -- but the other truck, Sara's, was empty and well positioned for a quick getaway. Neal and Elizabeth handed Peter up to Kate and Mozzie in the back of the truck, then scrambled after him.

Keller started to follow. Neal gave him a hard shove, pushing him back. "No," he said.

"Caffrey --"

"We're done, Keller. Done."

"I did what had to be done and you know it," Keller snapped, obstinately gripping the rear door so that Neal couldn't close it. "You're soft, Caffrey. You always have been --"

"Neal!" Sara shouted back from the front of the truck. "Cops are going to be here any minute! We gotta go!"

Neal's gaze dropped to his hands. His gloves were soaked in Peter's blood. Suddenly furious, he lashed out, punching Keller in the face. It was a glancing blow but enough to make Keller stagger backward, and Neal slammed the door. "Go!" he shouted at Sara.

The truck pulled away with a lurch that sent all of them stumbling and sliding on the metal floor.

"Which way?" Sara called.

"It doesn't matter!" Neal shouted back. "Anywhere other than here."

On the floor of the truck, Elizabeth held Peter's head in her lap. Both her hands were pressed to his chest, with blood welling up between her fingers. Neal crouched next to her, feeling helpless. "What can I do? Can I help?"

Elizabeth shook her head desperately. "Something to stop the bleeding -- cloth, anything --"

Neal stripped off his jacket. Peter seemed to be trying to speak, his lips moving, but whatever he wanted to say was inaudible under the sound of the engine and the truck's clattering. Momentum pushed them first one way, then another as Sara took sharper corners than the truck was designed for.

"They're going to have witness descriptions," Kate said tightly. "Is there any way the other truck can be traced back to us?"

"It's anonymous," Mozzie said. He'd been in charge of vehicle procurement. "Completely clean. Unless someone left prints in it ..."

There followed a rapid flurry of activity as everyone checked their gloves, then searched their memories to be sure they'd been wearing gloves the whole time. Neal tried not to wonder what Keller was doing. He definitely had the sense to clear out ahead of the cops, but he'd be _pissed._ If they thought they'd had trouble with him before, it was going to be ten times as bad now.

"How is he?" Sara called back from the driver's seat.

"Not good!" Neal shouted back to her, pressing his wadded-up jacket to Peter's chest.

"He needs a hospital," Elizabeth said. Her face was streaked with Peter's blood like war paint, her eyes wide and desperate. "He needs a hospital, _now._ "

"We can't," Neal told her. The look on her face was heartbreaking. "We can't, El, you know that."

"Even if we check him in under an alias, they have to report gunshot wounds," Mozzie said. "It's not just about him, Elizabeth. It's about all of us."

"I hate to suggest this," Sara called back. "But we could drop him at a hospital anonymously and then run."

"Leave him?" El said. Her arms tightened protectively around Peter.

"That's not a bad idea," Kate said. El's expression was thunderous, but Kate scowled back, unintimidated. "It's better than having him bleed to death on the floor of the truck!"

"Come on, guys," Neal appealed to the group. "Does anyone have any medical contacts in the Illinois or Missouri area? Doctors? Morticians? _Anyone_ we might be able to con, blackmail or coerce?"

Mozzie cleared his throat. "I ... might know a guy," he admitted reluctantly. "There's a guy that owes me a favor. He's in Carbondale now, I think."

"Doctor?" Elizabeth asked eagerly.

Mozzie couldn't quite meet her eyes. "Veterinarian."

"Carbondale," Neal said. Although he'd grown up in St. Louis, he wasn't familiar with Illinois; he only knew that it was vaguely somewhere in the southern part of the state. "I don't know exactly where that is."

"I do," El said. "It's not too far from where my parents live. It's almost two hours from here, though. I don't know if he can hold out that long."

"Freeway entrance coming up!" Sara called. "Someone better tell me which way to go!"

Mozzie met Neal's eyes, a silent question on his face. Neal gave him a small, tight nod. It really was the only option. Mozzie rose and went up front to direct Sara. 

"The good thing about St. Louis is that it's a crossroads," Kate remarked. "There are highways going in all directions. They won't know where to look for us." She crouched beside them with a first-aid kit, though Neal couldn't imagine what could possibly be in there to help. The jacket under his hands was sodden with blood; his arms were splattered with it.

The ride became smoother once they were on the freeway, gliding into the night. Their truck was, by design, unmarked and undistinguished, just one of many smallish white delivery trucks all around the city. Which was good, because they'd be instantly screwed if they were pulled over. It was hard to feign innocence with blood all over the place.

"I think the bleeding might be slowing," Elizabeth said with desperate hope in her voice.

Neal thought she might be right -- it seemed that the blood-soaked jacket was no more saturated than it had been a few minutes ago -- but the sheer quantity of blood Peter had lost was terrifying. Peter's face was chalk-white, his eyelids fluttering as he fought to stay conscious. He tried to whisper something. 

"Stop," Elizabeth said. "Don't talk."

Kate put a hand over Neal's and nodded to him; Neal slid his hand out from under hers, and she leaned forward to put her weight on the makeshift pressure bandage. Peter made a soft hurt sound. Elizabeth bent over him, her face to his, touching her lips to his forehead and cheek. Kate looked away, meeting Neal's eyes, and as was so often the case, he saw his own thoughts reflected there. Elizabeth and Peter's shared pain was too raw, too terrible to want to be close to. And Neal feared, along with her, that all their options were equally bad ones.

He stripped off his bloody gloves -- though his hands were sticky with it too -- and went up front to see how things were going.

Mozzie had taken the shotgun seat. Neal leaned on the back of it to look out the windshield. They were still on the freeway, cruising behind a semi truck in the slow lane. Both Mozzie and Sara looked up in alarm when they became aware of Neal standing behind them.

"He's not --" Mozzie began, and broke off.

"He's still alive," Neal said quietly. "For how much longer, I don't know." It hurt to say it.

"I don't dare go faster than the speed limit," Sara said.

"I know."

The ride went on and on. Kate found a tarpaulin and some old canvas sacks, which they used to make a sort of cushion to keep Peter and whoever was sitting with him -- Elizabeth always; the others taking turns -- off the cold metal floor of the truck. They traded off holding pressure on Peter's chest. Neal wasn't sure how much it helped, but it gave them something to do. Even Mozzie took his turn. Peter mostly drowsed, sometimes waking up enough to moan softly.

Neal went up front for a while to escape the tense, dismal atmosphere in the back of the truck. They'd left the freeway for a country highway, which offered nothing to look at but endless darkness and occasionally the lights of a small town. The radio was softly playing a jazz station. Sara looked over at him when he took the passenger seat, her face lit from below by the instrument panel and headlights.

"What a mess," she said. 

"Yeah." Neal laughed quietly, without humor. "You can say that again."

"What happened, anyway? I didn't see anything. I heard some gunshots and then everyone came running out."

"Keller shot Peter. Kate said Peter stopped him from killing a guard." Kate was the only one who'd seen the whole thing. "I shouldn't have let him back in, Sara."

"Not your fault," she said, reaching over the gearshift to squeeze his hand. If the half-dried blood bothered her, she didn't show it. "We all made the decision."

"Peter was the only holdout," Neal said. He hunched down in the seat, wrapping his entire body tightly around his core. He was cold and the warm air blasting from the truck's vents couldn't warm him.

"Peter's different," Sara said. Neal glanced at her. "Different from the rest of us. Don't tell me you haven't noticed it."

"Do you think Peter picked a fight with Keller?"

"I don't know. Maybe he said or did something that made the guard realize he wasn't supposed to be there."

"He seemed to be doing all right as a front man. Better than I expected, honestly." Peter seemed like such a straightforward guy that Neal hadn't expected him to be a good liar. He couldn't say why that bothered him, but somehow it did.

"I don't know," Sara said again. "He doesn't quite think the way the rest of us do."

She was right, and Neal was still thinking about it when he went into the back of the truck again and sat on the tarp beside Elizabeth. Peter seemed to have achieved a hazy kind of consciousness. He smiled faintly when he saw Neal.

"Don't try to talk," El told him sternly, with only a hint of a quaver in her voice.

Peter moved his head in a faint nod, then shifted slightly so that his head rested against her thigh. El cupped his cheek in her hand. "How close are we?" she asked softly.

"Getting there," Neal said, hoping it was true. He put a hand over Peter's. It was ice cold, but the fingers curled weakly, wrapping around his.

It wasn't too much later when they slowed and braked for a stop sign or traffic light. The truck made its gradual lumbering way down a series of small-town streets and finally stopped; Sara killed the engine. "Mozzie says this is it," she said into the back.

Leaving most of them in the truck, Neal climbed down with Mozzie. The night was cold and quiet, lit by the harsh blue glare of a single streetlight on the corner. They were standing in front of an ordinary suburban-looking house, with a garage and a neatly mowed yard where children's toys lay scattered. Neal felt a sudden sharp guilt at bringing their problems here.

They let themselves into the yard through a gate with a little latch that didn't even look like it locked. Mozzie dialed a number on a burner phone and, to an eventual response Neal couldn't hear, said, "We're here. Yes, Mike, I know. This is awkward for everyone. Let's move on."

They waited on the porch. A light came on eventually behind the frosted glass. The man who opened the door was about Mozzie's age, wearing a fuzzy bathrobe with a printed pattern of little dogs and bones. Small eyes behind wire-framed glasses settled balefully on Mozzie. "You can't _be_ here," he informed them in a sharp whisper.

"As much pleasure as it would give me _not_ to be here," Mozzie said, "and as much as it pains me to admit it, I am in desperate need of your services."

"I'm a veterinarian," Mike said, his eyes darting between the two of them -- lingering on the bloodstains on Neal's shirt and pants -- and then to the truck parked at the curb. "What's in there, a horse that was hit by a train? Because, I'm telling you, an emergency vet clinic would be a _lot_ more --"

"It's not a horse," Neal said. "It's a friend. He's going to die. We need your help, _please."_

"I'm not a doctor! My patients bark and whinny; they don't _talk."_

"Cincinnati," Mozzie said, slowly and deliberately, enunciating every syllable.

"I have a _life_ now," Mike said plaintively. "I'm married. We have two kids."

"Look," Mozzie said. "I don't like this any more than you do, but after this, we're square. Solid. And as much as I hate to bring up the past ... _Cincinnati_ , Mike. You owe me."

"All right," Mike snapped. "But not here. My kids are here. We'll do it at the clinic. I can close it tomorrow; I'll reschedule my clients. Just ... wait here." He slammed the door.

Neal gazed at the door for a moment before turning to Mozzie. He felt slow and overwhelmed -- adrenaline crash, maybe, or just the sense that he was way over his head on this one. "Can we trust him?"

"Big Mike?" Mozzie said. "Not at all. But I don't think he'll do anything to put his family at risk. Mike was always loyal."

"That's not entirely comforting."

Mike emerged a few minutes later in jeans and a sweater. "All right, let's get this over with." He didn't even flinch when Mozzie opened the back of the truck, revealing the blood-splattered interior. "Shot?" he said, sweeping his gaze over the scene. Elizabeth nodded.

"You all realize I'm taking him to a small-town veterinary clinic, right? Our facilities aren't terrible, but a hospital would be able to do a lot more for him."

"We can't," Neal said. "The police will be looking for us already. He'd go straight from surgery to federal custody."

"I figured that'd be the case," Mike sighed. He clambered into the back of the truck and knelt beside Peter.

"Tell me where to go," Sara said, craning over the back of her seat.

Mike pulled out his phone, tapped a bit, and passed it up to her by way of Mozzie. "GPS app. Just follow it." 

The truck started with a lurch. Mike put on a pair of vinyl gloves and tilted Peter's head to the side with deft fingers, feeling for a pulse. "One thing he's going to need for certain is blood. Anyone know his blood type?" A ring of blank looks greeted this statement. "Of course you don't," Mike said in a resigned tone. "Well, either we need a blood donor or someone needs to go rob a blood bank."

"I'm O negative," Mozzie said in a small but determined voice. "Universal donor. I can do it."

"More volunteers would be better."

"I can ask him," Elizabeth said. She bent over Peter, patting his face until he twitched. "Honey, I need to know your blood type." Peter started to whisper something; El shook her head and put a finger on his lips. "No. Blood type. Your blood type." She bent lower yet; her hair hung down like a curtain, hiding them both from view. They had a conversation in whispers; then Elizabeth looked up. "A positive, he says." She looked miserable. "I'm A-B. I can't help."

"That's mine," Kate said. "I can donate for him."

Neal nodded. "Mine too."

"B positive up here, sorry," Sara called.

"I can work with that," Mike said. "Any of you have a medical background? Paramedic, anything?"

Silence all around. "Why?" Kate said.

"Because if I have to operate on him, I'm going to need an assistant. I can't do everything myself. Unless you want me to call in a vet tech and swear her to secrecy."

"No," Elizabeth said. "I can do it."

"I don't want you passing out halfway through, sister."

"I won't," she said, pale but calm.

Sara skidded to a halt outside the veterinary clinic. Mike, it turned out, had a stretcher for transporting large pets; Elizabeth and Neal helped him maneuver Peter onto it. He was terribly cold and limp, and didn't stir as they moved him. The straps were in the wrong place for a human patient, but it was better than dragging him. 

Since she wasn't needed for blood-donating duties, Sara took off to dispose of the truck. Neal didn't envy her that task; it was going to be a miserable and messy all-night operation to get rid of all the blood. The rest of them trooped into the vet clinic along with the patient.

Neal had had his doubts, and the strong, musky animal smell that greeted him upon entering the building didn't help (not to mention the sound of barking). However, the surgical suite was clean and modern-looking. Mozzie turned out to know his way around blood-drawing equipment -- Neal decided not to examine that too closely -- so Mike delegated him to collecting blood from the volunteers while he and Elizabeth took X-rays and prepped Peter for surgery. "I'm not used to figuring anesthesia dosages for human-sized patients," Neal overheard Mike say.

He and Kate ended up out in the waiting area, both a little light-headed from having blood drawn. She had a smudge of dried blood on the side of her nose. Neal reached out to wipe it off, and then realized his hands were covered with patchy, flaking blood as well. They shared a rueful look, and Neal grinned shakily. "Some night, huh?"

"I can honestly say I don't remember another night like it." Kate started to twist back her long hair into a makeshift bun, then dropped it and looked at her hands. "God. We're both a mess."

Mozzie popped out of the surgical suite, stripping off a scrub top that he'd put over his regular clothes. "Mike gave me his keys," he said. "Now we just have to get the actual car ... but it's not that much of a walk, maybe half a mile or so." He cast an appraising glance at the two of them. "At least, for those of us who don't look like we've just come from the slaughterhouse."

Somehow, unlike the rest of them, he'd managed to avoid getting blood anywhere but on his sleeves, which he had cut off at the shoulders. The result was odd but at least it didn't scream "serial killer on the loose".

"It'd better be you," Neal said. "We all need showers and clean clothes, but I don't think it'd be a good idea to go to Walmart in this condition."

"Oh," Mozzie said on his way out, "Mike wants to know if you two can feed the animals, since you're not doing anything."

"What animals?"

It turned out to be a matter of following the sound of barking. There was a room full of cages -- dogs in one area, cats in another. Some of the animals were clearly recovering from injuries or ailments, with bandages and cones to keep them from chewing their stitches; others were not visibly ill and might be being boarded. Neal and Kate located the room where the pet food was kept, read the instructions on the packages, and tried not to worry too much about accidentally killing something by giving it the wrong food. A few of the animals had specific dietary instructions taped to their cages, which was useful. 

After that, having nothing else to do, they explored the clinic. There wasn't much to see. They found a room that was probably for washing animals, judging by the drain in the floor and the flexible, shower-tipped hose. Neither of them were quite desperate enough for a public shower, but they washed their hands and faces at the large stainless-steel sink.

"Tonight is going to come in handy if we ever have to con someone by pretending to be veterinarians, I suppose," Kate mused.

"I'm sure that's likely to come up." Neal took a turn at the sink. He got the blood off his skin, but it felt as if it had left an invisible stain. His clothes were a lost cause. 

Mozzie reappeared as they were finishing up. He tossed a pile of clothing at them. "I took the liberty of raiding Mike's closet."

"Also his wife's closet," Kate remarked, holding up a skirt. 

Neal stopped in the act of sorting the stolen clothing. "Isn't his wife actually _in the house?"_

"I can be very quiet when I want to," Mozzie said.

Neal tried to shake the image of Mozzie creeping around Mike's bedroom, snatching items from drawers with the sleeping Mrs. Mike only a few feet away. Mike's clothes were too long in the arms and too wide in the hips, and his wife's dress fit Kate like an odd-shaped sack, but it was better than being covered in blood.

"I don't know about you two, but I'm starving," Mozzie said as they stuffed their bloody clothes into a biowaste incinerator that Kate and Neal had found in their explorations. "Anyone up for a food run? Not that the options, at this time of night, are likely to be more extensive than Taco Bell and the all-night truck stop."

Kate shook her head. "I'd rather get some sleep. And someone ought to be here to tell Elizabeth where everyone went."

They left her trying to sleep on a bench in the waiting area and went out to Mike's SUV. There was a car seat in the back and a bobble-head dog on the dashboard.

"What did Mike do when you knew him, anyway?" Neal asked as the two of them bent over Mozzie's phone, looking for all-night eateries in the area.

"He interrogated people for a mob boss in Cincinnati."

"Let me get this straight," Neal said. "You took us to a torturer."

"Retired."

Mozzie had been right about the dismal prospects for takeout at 3 a.m. They ended up getting a large pile of carry-out orders at a Steak'n'Shake, by which point Neal was too tired and hungry to care whether the food was up to his usual standards. Sara texted them while they were waiting, asking to be picked up. After getting the food, they retrieved her from a cornfield several miles out on the highway.

"Where's the truck?" Mozzie asked. "Did you burn it?"

"Burn it?" Sara repeated in disbelief. She was smudged, disheveled and looked even more tired than Neal felt. "No, I didn't burn it. We're not trying to escape the CIA. I scrubbed it down with an entire gallon of bleach and then parked it behind some brush in the most abandoned-looking field I could find. I doubt if anyone will find it for months. Ooh, something smells good in here."

Neal passed her a takeout box while Mozzie pulled back onto the highway. "How's Peter?" Sara asked with her mouth full.

"Having surgery performed on him by a mob torturer, when we left," Neal said, with a dark look at Mozzie.

"It's not as if we had a lot of options," Mozzie retorted.

 

***

 

The veterinary clinic was quiet and peaceful when they got back. Kate slept on the waiting-area bench, one hand folded under her cheek, hair drifting across her face. Neal brushed a dark strand away from the corner of her mouth. She didn't stir. 

Mike was sitting across from her, slumped with exhaustion. Neal regarded him with a new wariness, noticing how _big_ he was, the broad deft hands ... "How's Peter?"

"Well, he got through the surgery okay," Mike said. "Got the bleeding stopped, anyway. He's in the back with his girlfriend -- who's a pretty good little nurse. You can see him if you want to. _I'm_ going home and get some sleep, as soon as I get my car back from you people."

Mozzie tossed him the keys. "You got a cover story?"

"Of course I do," Mike said, sounding disgusted. "I'll tell Shirley I got called out for an emergency patient -- it happens, and it's not even _that_ much of a lie. So I'm gonna close the clinic today and sleep in. I even left messages for the vet techs telling 'em not to come in, and we can cancel appointments in the morning. It's going to be a mess. I hope you're happy."

"Quite," Mozzie said, and executed a small bow.

Mike grunted and started for the door.

"Wait!" Neal cried, his fatigue-slowed brain catching up with the fact that Mike was abandoning them with a post-operative patient and no actual medical personnel. "Is there -- I mean -- is Peter going to need, I don't know, anything?"

"I already gave his girlfriend a dosage schedule for antibiotics and pain meds," Mike said. "He might be sick when he wakes up, from the anesthesia. That's your problem. Call me if he stops breathing." With that, he left, locking the door behind him.

"Is that a possibility?" Neal called after him.

"Will people stop yelling," Kate muttered sleepily from under a curtain of hair.

Sara had already vanished into the back with her arms full of takeout boxes. Neal helped Kate off the bench; they turned out the lights in the front and followed her.

The scene that greeted their eyes was a tranquil one, if unusual enough to have a dreamlike quality. There were no human-sized beds in the vet clinic, so Peter was resting on the floor in a pile of the foam-filled pads that were used in the dog kennels. Neal hoped the clinic did a good job of disinfecting them. He had an IV in his arm. A blanket pulled over his chest hid whatever damage had been done. Elizabeth was sitting beside him on a pillow-pile of her own, leaning sleepily against the wall and lightly chafing the back of his hand with her thumb.

"Hey," Neal said. He sat next to her and gave her a tired half-hug. As soon as he was off his feet, he wasn't sure if he was going to be able to get up again. It had been a _very_ long night. "How is he?" Peter's slack face looked peaceful, if alarmingly pale.

"Okay, I guess." Elizabeth sagged wearily against Neal. There were still dried smudges of blood in the creases of her skin -- on her wrist, in the crook of her elbow -- that he decided not to point out.

He looked up when Sara came into the room dragging a large pile of foam pads. She saw his look and shrugged. "Not like there's anything else to sleep on," she said, and began spreading them around the room, covering the concrete floor. 

Kate went to help her, and in short order the room looked like the site of an adult-sized sleepover. Neal found some more blankets in a supply closet. With most of the lights off, they lounged on the pillows and ate what food they had appetite for. One by one they began falling asleep as dawn brightened the windows.


	7. Seven

They all slept through the morning. Peter woke up sometime around noon, cranky and nauseated and out of it. Elizabeth helped him get up -- he was wobbly, but could stand with a little support -- and took him to the bathroom.

Neal was still drowsy, but too wired to go back to sleep. He found Kate already up, and the two of them went to check on the animals. At Kate's suggestion they took the dogs outside, in small batches, to exercise them in the gravel yard behind the building. Kate decided that she was fond of a Great Dane and wanted to keep him; Neal talked her out of dog theft on the principle that it would be very difficult to hide out with a dog the size of a small pony and, besides, what if there was a kid somewhere who would miss him?

"But I always wanted a dog."

"We'll liberate a pet store sometime," Neal said, and she looked cheerful.

The afternoon dragged past in "safehouse mode" -- stay inside, pass the time with cards and stories, toss around idle plans for getting away. It was obvious to all of them that this was an extremely temporary hiding place. Even if Mike was willing to tolerate their presence for more than a day or two, which Neal doubted, they were terribly exposed. Neal flinched every time a car passed on the street, straining his ears to see if it seemed to be slowing. Someone knocked on the front door once; everyone went quiet (not that they could be heard over the sudden explosion of barking from the bored, kenneled dogs) and eventually whoever it was went away.

Neal couldn't help noticing how Elizabeth had glued herself to Peter's side and refused to be peeled off, even when Sara offered to sit with him a bit so that Elizabeth could take a break. It nagged at him, because that kind of clingy concern wasn't an Elizabeth trait. He wanted to talk to her, but it was impossible to get privacy in a room full of people, especially since she wouldn't be separated from Peter.

As it turned out, though, she came to him. 

Peter had been awake for a while, enough to participate halfheartedly in a poker game with Neal and Elizabeth -- and Mozzie for a while, but he gave up in disgust, since Peter was too spacey to remember whose turn it was or what the rules were, and too weak to hold his cards for very long. "I hate this," Peter muttered at last, and drowsed while watching Elizabeth and Neal play for pennies. Eventually he began to fidget in discomfort, and Elizabeth gave him another dose of pain medication. He drifted into a deep, still sleep.

Elizabeth looked up at Neal. "Can we talk?" she asked quietly.

When Neal nodded, she rose carefully, so as not to wake Peter, and went out the back into the gravel dog yard. Neal followed her. There were some benches along the side of the building and they sat on one of these. The afternoon was warm and pleasant, but there was a chill in the breeze, a reminder that winter was coming.

"Are you okay?" Neal asked quietly. Elizabeth had her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Maybe seeing Peter get shot had messed her up more than he'd realized. 

Elizabeth nodded, then shook her head. "There's something you need to know. I wasn't sure whether to -- but, no, I had to tell _someone,_ and it should really be you." She leaned a little closer to him and glanced anxiously at the door. "Neal, I think Peter is -- I think he might be an police informant, or even an undercover agent."

Her words broke over Neal like a bucket of ice water. He stared at her. "What?"

Elizabeth wet her lips and leaned even closer, dropping her voice still further, though there was no one to overhear. "After he was shot, and when he was first coming up from the anesthesia -- he said things ... I don't know. Maybe it's just that we've been living this way for so long that I'm being paranoid now."

Neal took her hand, rubbing his thumb across the back of it without really thinking about it. "What did he say?"

"He kept mistaking me for someone named Diana -- I thought at first perhaps she was an old girlfriend, and maybe she is, but he said he needed to make his report to her. That she would worry if he didn't check in." Elizabeth chewed her lip before going on, "And when he recognized me as myself, he kept apologizing. He kept saying he was sorry. I ... It was so _distressing,_ Neal. He was so upset that he was almost crying. He told me he didn't want to hurt me and he doesn't like lying."

"There are lots of things he could be hiding," Neal said, trying to convince himself. "Not necessarily ... that."

"I know," Elizabeth said. "But I just can't help putting it together with everything else, Neal. I've never actually seen him steal anything. He's always trying to talk the rest of _us_ out of stealing things. He misses bits of lingo that he really ought to know if he's spent that much time in the life. He's just --"

"-- not like the rest of us," Neal finished for her, echoing Sara's words.

Elizabeth nodded silently.

Neal groaned and ran a hand through his hair. "Damn it." He should be used it by now. You never really trusted anyone; you never could. People switched sides. People sold out.

And he was _hurt,_ damn it. Hurt and angry. He'd really liked Peter. He'd _cared_ about Peter.

Elizabeth cleared her throat and straightened her back. Tears glimmered in her eyes, but didn't fall. "We could ... leave. Like Sara suggested before -- drop him at a hospital and just go. Burn the safehouses he knows about and the numbers he has for us. Even if he isn't taken into police custody, by the time he's back on his feet, we'll have gone to ground and he won't be able to find us."

It was the practical choice. Neal buried his face in his hands. He _hated_ the fact that they all looked to him to make decisions like this.

It would be the smart thing to do.

But he kept trying to put the pieces together -- Peter the traitor; Peter the loyal friend -- and it just didn't _fit_. Peter taking care of him when he was sick in St. Louis .... all the friendly arguments and the times they'd stayed up until the sun came up just talking about everything and nothing ... he couldn't believe Peter was faking that. He knew this was exactly the sort of "softness" that Keller used to warn him about, but the idea of abandoning Peter cut something in his chest.

"We can't just leave him alone and hurt and at the mercy of the police. He's our friend."

Elizabeth had looked away from him, through the wire fence; now she looked back at him quickly. And hopefully.

"We ... can't tell the others," she said slowly. "I've been trying to make sure he's never alone with anyone else." She cast an anxious glance at the door.

Neal shook his head. "We don't know for certain, anyway. It's just guesswork."

"But we can't be sure that he won't ..." She hesitated.

"Yeah. We're going to have to keep Peter away from as much of the planning process as possible -- and keep back some safehouses and stash locations --"

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows at him.

"Okay, yes, we all have bolt holes no one else knows about," Neal conceded. "For good reason. But as much as possible, we _can't_ let Peter know any more than he already knows until we're sure of him." One way or another, he concluded silently.

"We're actually doing this."

"We are," Neal sighed. It wasn't as if they didn't already keep secrets from each other already. But when he held out a hand and Elizabeth clasped it, he felt uncomfortably as if he'd drawn a line down the middle of the group: himself, Elizabeth, and Peter on one side; Kate, Mozzie, and Sara on the other.

He only wished he knew if the leap of faith was worth it.

 

***

 

Mike showed up in the afternoon, bringing pizzas and informing them that they had to be out by morning.

"Oh, come _on,_ man," Mozzie protested.

"I'm trying to run a business here. I can keep the clinic closed for a day or two, but what am I supposed to do, make house calls to take care of people's pets because my clinic is full of felons? And like you saw, there are animals here that have to be fed and tended."

"Can he be moved?" Neal asked.

"Of course he can. Most of my patients go home the next day."

"Mike," Mozzie said, "most of your patients are dogs."

"So? A dog's a mammal. A human's a mammal. Trust me, under the skin we're all basically the same. Your friend doesn't need a cushy ICU. I've seen people bounce back from worse."

Peter was fortunately in a drugged sleep and wasn't hearing any of this. "Look," Neal said, "we need time to make preparations. We can't just pick up and go. We don't have transportation, and there's almost certainly a manhunt underway for us in the St. Louis area."

"That's your problem, not mine."

After Mike left, Elizabeth cleared her throat. "I have an idea, but I don't know how the rest of you will feel about it. My parents live about an hour from here."

She got four stares of disbelief. "I _know,"_ Elizabeth said. "But ... they know what I do. What we do. And they support me in it. My mother has actually been wanting to meet the rest of you. I wanted to take Peter to meet them eventually. Just ... not quite like this."

Neal looked at the others, all of whom were now looking at him expectantly. It sounded like a _terrible_ idea. And yet, the more he thought it over, the more seductively appealing it was. Hotels were too public right now, and none of them had a bolt hole nearby. Besides, they wouldn't have to all stay together. Once Peter and Elizabeth were stashed somewhere safe, the rest of them could scatter until the heat died down. 

Still ... "Are you _sure?"_ he asked Elizabeth. "You'd be putting them in danger -- not just from the police, but from Keller."

"I hate it too, but I don't actually think they'll mind," she said. "I get the feeling that my mom, at least, has been living vicariously through me for some time now. They'll probably _love_ to feel useful."

Neal polled for a show of hands (Peter, still sleeping, didn't get a vote) and while no one was wildly enthusiastic about it, no one had anything better to suggest. Mozzie volunteered to handle the transportation end of things. Kate went with him. Elizabeth, Neal, and Sara drew straws -- actually rawhide chew sticks -- to see who had to feed the animals.

"Long stick," Elizabeth said triumphantly.

"Me too," Sara reported.

"Me three," Neal said. "And therefore we're obviously all cheating, which is why this sort of thing doesn't work with con artists."

Neal and Sara ended up dividing the work between them, while Elizabeth got Peter up, changed his bandages and tried to get him to eat something. When Neal returned to the room they'd all claimed as their "bedroom", he found Elizabeth alone, sitting in a pile of tangled bedding with something cupped in her hands.

"Elizabeth?" he said. She looked up quickly. There were tears on her cheeks.

Neal's stunned horror must have shown on her face, because Elizabeth said quickly, "No, no, everything is fine! Peter's in the bathroom. He felt well enough to handle things on his own. It's just ..."

She dropped her gaze to whatever she was holding. Neal sat next to her and she opened her hands. It was an origami crane; he vaguely remembered making one for Peter, although at the time, it hadn't been stained with dark rust-colored blotching.

"I just wanted to see if any of his clothes were salvageable." She handed it gingerly to Neal. "This fell out of his pocket."

"I gave him that." Neal turned it over between two fingers.

"I thought you must have. It's just, seeing it, I got to thinking ..." She sniffed and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "How close I came to losing him. How close --" She glanced quickly in the direction of the kennel, where Sara still was. "How close we might still be ..."

"Shhh." Neal put an arm around her, and she tilted against him and buried her face in his shoulder.

They were still sitting like that when Peter came out of the bathroom, holding onto a wall and moving with slow, careful consideration, like an old man. He paused on seeing them. "Did something happen?" he asked, his voice a rasping whisper.

Neal hastily palmed the crane. "No," he said. "Are you supposed to be walking around?"

El was already scrambling to her feet to help him. Between the two of them, Neal and Elizabeth got him settled back down. He refused to lie down, instead sitting with his back -- and most of his weight -- resting against the wall. "I hate being this weak," he muttered.

Neal fetched a cushion to prop him up. "Peter, you almost _died_ less than twenty-four hours ago. Most people would still be in an ICU with attentive nurses hovering around them. I think it's okay not to be badass and manly."

"I have a very attentive nurse," Peter said, squeezing Elizabeth's hand. She attempted to smile, but her smile wobbled on the edge of tears.

"Peter," Neal said hastily, drawing Peter's attention so Elizabeth could get herself together. "Do you think you're up to a little trip?"

"I guess so," Peter said, and frowned. "A little trip where?"

Elizabeth blinked the tears away and bit her lip. "... My parents' place?"

" _What?_ "

 

***

 

By the time Kate and Mozzie returned under the cover of darkness, Neal and Elizabeth had almost managed to convince Peter that hiding out at El's parents' house was, if not a _good_ idea, then at least not the worst idea in the history of bad ideas.

"I already called Mom," Elizabeth said. "She's expecting us. She has the guest bedroom all made up."

"Is she prepared for an entire _gang_?" Peter demanded, vehemently enough that he had to break off for a painful coughing fit which left him draped pathetically on Neal.

"Be careful, you'll tear your stitches," Elizabeth scolded him. "She knows about us, Peter. She's looking forward to meeting everyone."

The look Peter gave her was despairing. "Wonderful," he said weakly.

Mozzie and Kate had pulled their ride around back. It turned out to be a hearse.

"What?" Mozzie said when Neal boggled at him. "There's lots of room inside, and nobody wants to look in the back of a hearse. It's perfect."

It was actually a good point. While Elizabeth got Peter settled in the back -- to the tune of a certain amount of complaining -- the rest of them cleaned up all signs of their presence in the veterinary clinic, at least to the extent it was possible without spending much more time than they had. A decent forensics team sweeping for DNA would have a field day. Neal only hoped that their connection to Mike would never come up.

And then they locked the doors and piled into the hearse. Peter seemed to have worn himself out and had fallen asleep or passed out with his head in Elizabeth's lap.

"Onward," she said quietly, with a small smile at Neal, a private smile just between the two of them.

"Onward," he echoed, and settled back with his fingers laced through Kate's.


	8. Eight

Diana would never have known about the museum robbery in St. Louis, or at least would not have connected it to any of her own case files, if she hadn't had a particularly unusual kind of evidence flagged for notification. And she came in to the DC office to find that a ping had come up: the St. Louis police had bagged and tagged an origami flower on a museum loading dock.

"It might not be connected at all, but we do know they're in the U.S.," she told Agent Kramer. "Or were in the U.S. as of the last time I talked to Peter."

"You haven't heard from him more recently?"

She shook her head. And that was wrong, completely wrong -- he _should_ have been in touch if a heist was planned. He'd dropped off the map and she really didn't like it.

"It's probably worth checking out," Kramer conceded. She could tell he didn't think he was doing more than humoring a junior agent's hunch. Still, he had to admit Peter dropping off the radar was unusual. Peter was clockwork reliable about checking in regularly, even in deep cover. It hadn't been long enough to call out the troops yet, but it was a break from pattern. And when agents were undercover, breaks from pattern rarely meant anything good.

And so by afternoon Diana, jet-lagged and sleep-deprived, was on the scene in St. Louis with a police liaison. She examined the flower through the plastic of a clear evidence bag.

"Forensics find anything?" she asked, tilting it. 

The liaison, a young woman named Wu, shook her head. "No prints, anyway. We don't have the funding to do a full forensic workup on every item we pull from a crime scene." _We're not the FBI,_ her tone seemed to imply. "It could have been a bored dock worker who made it, for all we know. It was only bagged because the thieves had been working in that area. Do you think they're the gang you're looking for?"

"I don't know. We haven't heard from our man inside." Diana prowled the loading dock, part of which was taped off. She crouched to examine the blood stains. "Run down for me what happened here."

"I think the report was already forwarded to you."

"I know. I read it on the plane. Humor me."

"It was a smooth job," Wu said. "There were at least five or six of them, two dressed as museum guards. Source of the uniforms seems to have been a dry cleaner's."

"And they were after these." Diana peeked into an open crate. The only visible items were a couple of small, dull-colored pots, packed in Styrofoam. "They don't look valuable."

"You'd be surprised how much these sorts of artifacts can go for on the black market," Wu said. Diana raised an eyebrow and Wu acknowledged it with a slight smile. "You work for Art Crimes; I guess you do know. But these weren't terribly important. It's possible they had a collector lined up, because this is an unusually complete collection of --" She checked her clipboard. "-- pre-Mississippian ceramics and ceremonial items. Still, there's nothing in here that would have been expected to attract attention from a ring of thieves this well organized."

"Except they weren't so well organized after all," Diana murmured, looking down at the brown stains on the concrete. "Someone got shot."

Wu consulted her clipboard again. "To make it even more interesting, eyewitnesses were unanimous that the shooter and the victim were both members of the gang. One of them attacked a guard, and the other interfered. The first gang member shot him"

The more she heard, the farther Diana's stomach sank, because that really sounded like something Peter might have done. The description she'd read in the report was fairly generic -- white male, above-average height, brown hair, no scars or tattoos. The description would probably fit half the adult white males in the U.S. But Peter was definitely one of them ...

"I assume hospitals and morgues have all been checked."

Wu nodded. "No gunshot victims that fit the description were reported in any area hospitals. We have a BOLO out, but ..." She shrugged. "St. Louis sits on the crossroads of several major interstates, not to mention a bunch of smaller highways. There are any number of directions they could have gone."

And any number of fields in which Peter's remains could be buried ... no, she wasn't going to think that way. If only she had a way to get in touch with him directly. They'd been using burner phones. She'd sent a message to his pseudonymous email drop, but he hadn't answered or checked the account. On the other hand, maybe he was busy; maybe the gang had gone to ground somewhere. Maybe they were halfway around the world and Diana was chasing shadows.

Back in her hotel, she pored over the information from the crime scene. She walked down to a convenience store and bought a St. Louis map, which she spread out in her room, freely annotating it. Wu had been right; the number of directions they could have gone were virtually infinite. Which was, in a way, another tick in the "Orchid" column. A central location provided many escape opportunity, and Caffrey was nothing if not well prepared.

_As a thought experiment, let's pretend it's the Orchid,_ she told herself. _They're wanted by the police and have a badly injured person with them. Where would they go?_

Hospitals were out. Hotels were possible, roadside motels even more so, although they'd have to rely on the strength of their aliases. Caffrey's gang included at least two skilled forgers, so it was likely that they had decent fake credentials, but they might not have been prepared for a fast retreat. They would also be scared and paranoid.

The DC office was closed, but she was able to log into the database and examine the Orchid files. She skimmed through one dossier after another. It was around three in the morning when her tired, caffeine-overdosed brain tripped over the word "Illinois".

Elizabeth Mitchell's parents lived in Illinois.

Diana pulled up Google Maps. The Mitchells' address was only about a three-hour drive from St. Louis.

It was a long shot. In all likelihood the gang wasn't careless enough to do something so obvious. But _Elizabeth Mitchell_ might have been that careless. Peter's reports had been very oblique regarding Elizabeth, but Diana could read between the lines. The woman clearly thought she was dating Peter. She might truly care about him. And if she _had_ just witnessed Peter being shot -- or someone else in the gang --

Maybe she'd run home.

Diana checked to make sure Peter hadn't emailed any of her throwaway email addresses. He hadn't.

It might be a long shot, but right now it was the only shot she had.

 

***

 

Elizabeth's mother was friendly and hospitable -- almost terrifyingly so. If having six thieves turn up on her doorstep past midnight bothered her, it didn't show. Peter was awake, but staggering as he leaned on Elizabeth, drifting in and out. He remembered only snatches of it afterward, mostly Elizabeth's mom taking him in hand and guiding him to a guest bedroom that smelled like lavender and rose petals. There was a patchwork quilt on the bed. It reminded him so much of the house he'd grown up in that it made him want to cry -- and actually he might have cried, because he vaguely remembered Elizabeth saying "Shush, shush," and her mom trying to feed him soup, and then he fell asleep with Elizabeth petting his hair.

He woke up slowly with warm sunlight falling on his pillow. The sunshine was filtered through gauzy white curtains. For awhile Peter just lay still and gazed at the ceiling, until it penetrated slowly that he was stiff and in pain and needed to pee.

Someone had left a tidy arrangement of items on the bedside table: a bottle of the pain pills he'd been taking (dog painkillers, probably, but if they were going to kill him they probably would have already), a glass of water, and a Tupperware container with a note taped to the lid that said _Honey Bee says your medication should be taken with food. -M_ He inferred that "M" was probably Elizabeth's mother, which meant that Honey Bee must be El. He'd have to ask her about that later.

The Tupperware container held toast, a sliced boiled egg, and a neatly quartered orange, all of them arranged in a precise manner that clearly announced _I subscribe to all of Martha Stewart's magazines_. He ate half a piece of toast and took a pill. While he waited for it to kick in, he gazed at the ceiling and tried to put the pieces of the last couple of days together.

Most of what he remembered was just fragments of pain and confusion. And Elizabeth -- she was always there, holding his hand and petting his hair and telling him it was going to be all right. And he'd believed her. In the depths of pain and darkness and fear, that was what he remembered, mostly: Elizabeth cradling his head in her lap, Neal holding his hand, everyone closing around him and trying their best to hold the darkness at bay.

Elizabeth had told him that most of them had donated blood to get him through the impromptu surgery. That was something he didn't want to examine too closely, but still he couldn't help flexing his arm and looking at the taped-over IV scar. He was alive because of Neal's blood and Mozzie's and Kate's. He was alive because they'd risked everything to find a surgeon (of sorts) to help him.

Except he could have just gone to a hospital, if they'd only known. If he had been conscious, and thinking clearly, he could have told them to take him there. He still could, actually. He might even be able to do it without blowing his cover, if he faked some kind of medical emergency so severe that they had to call an ambulance for him.

But the idea of playing on their emotions in that way struck him as the worst kind of deception.

_And what you're doing now is different ... how?_

The need to pee was becoming too overwhelming to ignore, breaking him out of the endless circle of his dilemma. He shoved back the covers and struggled slowly out of bed, discovering in the process that he'd been dressed in a loose pair of pajamas that he definitely did not remember putting on.

Getting to the door was easier said than done because he had to wend his way through most of the contents of a craft store. There was a sewing machine on a stand beside the bed, and the floor was largely hidden beneath shelves and bins and various other forms of cheap Walmart storage, containing a virtual rainbow of fabric, yarn, dried flowers and so forth. On the bright side, he was still lightheaded and it gave him things to hold onto --

\-- at least until he tried to support himself on a wooden rack holding yarn skeins, found that it wasn't as stable as it looked, and went staggering into a bunch of stacked plastic bins holding seashells and pine cones, knocking several of them to the floor. He didn't actually fall because a convenient wall got in the way, but he had to cling to it while the room stopped spinning. Even after he _could_ move, he didn't dare take a step for fear of trampling something breakable.

The door opened. "Peter!" Elizabeth said, and picked her way through spilled pine cones to support him with cool, soft hands. "Are you all right? Did you hurt yourself?"

"I'm sorry," he muttered, transferring as much of his weight as he dared to her. "I mean, tell your mom I'm sorry."

"Don't be ridiculous." El shoved pine cones out of the way with a slippered foot and helped him to the door. "This is _my_ room -- I mean, my old room, and it's not your fault if Mom decided to turn it into her crafting emporium after I moved out."

Elizabeth's old room? He looked around with new interest, but only had a moment for rubbernecking before El helped him out into the hall. "Were you looking for the bathroom?" she asked, and he nodded. She led him to the first door down the hall. "There are towels in the cabinet behind the toilet. If you want to take a shower, I can help you cover up your stitches with plastic."

"A shower would be _great_ ," he admitted.

El left him alone for a few discreet minutes, and returned eventually with a roll of Saran wrap. "Don't laugh," she said, digging in the bathroom cabinet and coming up with surgical tape. "Mom took care of Dad after he had hernia surgery, and she swears by it."

She helped him get undressed and wrapped his chest liberally with the plastic wrap, taping down the edges. "I'll be right outside," she said, kissing him. "Unless you want help."

He weighed the pleasures of having El in the shower with him against the fact that they were in her parents' bathroom and he was too weak to enjoy it properly anyway. "I'll be okay. If I can't handle a shower, I probably shouldn't be taking one."

He ended up having to sit down in the tub because standing up for long periods of time still wasn't a thing that was going to happen, but he felt infinitely better when he got out -- and he was even hungry for the first time since his surgery. El had left a clean set of sweats laid out in the bathroom, new and crisp and in his size, which probably meant someone had taken a trip to the store today.

Dressed and feeling marginally more human, he left the bathroom. The Mitchells' house, typical of Midwestern mid-century construction, seemed to be built on a single-story plan, which was a relief -- no stairs to deal with. He made his way past another bedroom and into the living room, which was bright and sunny and cheerfully decorated in cream and yellow and green.

Elizabeth and her mother were chatting as Peter limped sheepishly into the living room. Both Mitchell women descended on him, and soon he found himself herded back into the bedroom, propped up with pillows, wrapped in blankets and plied with soup and tea.

It wasn't a bad way to convalesce, if he could just forget the whole "wanted by the police" issue. He needed to find some way to pass a message to Diana, but he didn't seem to have his phone anymore and couldn't think of a pretext for using the landline.

"Where is everyone else?" he asked Elizabeth quietly after Mrs. Mitchell left to start defrosting a frozen pot roast for dinner.

"We all spent the night here, but the house was pretty crowded with six guests and we figured it would draw too much attention keeping all of us here, so it was best to split up. Sara and Mozzie have gone to ground already. I know that Sara was going to hit one of her drops, pick up clean ID and leave the country. I'm not sure what Mozzie's plan is." She smiled ruefully. "Sometimes it's better not to ask."

Peter acknowledged her point with a wry twist of his lips. "What about Neal and Kate?"

"Neal wanted to stay." There was something a little off about the way she said it -- not deception, exactly, but a hint that there might be more going on than she was admitting, but she moved on before he could be sure that he wasn't just imagining it. "Kate's going to stick around for a day or two and then join Sara. Right now they're in the backyard with Dad. Actually, they'll want to know you're awake; I should go get them."

"You don't have to --" Peter began, but she was already out of her chair and then out of the room.

Being left alone gave him an opportunity to look around the room, looking for signs of the child Elizabeth had once been. There were still a few traces, buried under her mother's crafting supplies, most notably a shelf with some well-worn Barbie dolls and the deconstructed parts of a model train set. The walls bore old posters, most depicting locations that would have been exotic to a Midwestern 14-year-old, and in fact to Peter prior to a couple of months ago -- Paris, Rome, Tokyo. It was clear that young Elizabeth had dreamed of traveling the world.

From what she told Peter, she'd ended up, instead, buried under student loans from her art history degree, working two jobs to make ends meet. That was where she'd been when she met Neal; he'd robbed the museum where she had a low-paid staff position on a night she was working late.

Peter had to ask himself if, for all the uncertainty of her current lifestyle, she'd really have been better off in the life she'd almost had -- shelving her dreams one by one along with her old dolls; probably marrying some nine-to-five office worker and settling down in a little house in the suburbs with a dog. Would she have been happy in that life?

A light tap at the door broke into his thoughts. Neal didn't wait for a response before coming in, waltzing gracefully between the stacks of bins and shelves. He was, disconcertingly, dressed for suburbia, in a short-sleeved polo shirt and jeans.

"You look a lot better," Neal said, sitting on the end of the bed. "Though I guess it would be hard to look worse."

"Thanks," Peter said, aiming for sarcasm but somehow missing and ending up with sincerity instead.

Neal shrugged, looking away. He was playing with something between his fingers. It looked vaguely familiar, but Peter had to lean forward to recognize the shape of a paper crane. "Hey, I think that's mine."

"I don't know if you still want it," Neal said, holding it up so that Peter could see the brown blotches on the once-white paper. "I guess it didn't bring much luck after all."

For some reason that was what made it hit home, seeing his own blood staining the fragile little origami crane -- how close he'd really come to dying and, maybe even worse, that he was alive only because a bunch of con artists had saved him. Peter had to set aside the soup bowl because his hands were shaking. "Maybe it did," he said when he thought he could speak steadily. "Keller could have fired a little lower and to the left, and I'd be ... well. It wouldn't have ended the same. I think I'll keep it."

"If you insist." Neal smiled softly and set it on the bedside table under Mrs. Mitchell's Tiffany lamp. The brownish patterns were almost pretty as long as Peter didn't think too hard about what had made them.

"Was anyone else hurt at the loading dock? Bystanders, I mean." God, he hoped not; he'd never be able to live with himself if Keller had killed someone.

"Just you," Neal said. "Although we jetted out of there fast enough that I'm not entirely sure what Keller did afterwards. I'm sure he had the sense to run."

"Have you heard from him at all?"

Neal gave his head a short, hard shake. "I think I made it clear at the museum that we're done with him. I wish I'd never let him back in."

"It was probably the right thing to do." On some level, anyway. "You had to try."

"Well, I'm done trying." Neal's face was harder and angrier than Peter had ever seen on him. "He'd better stay out of our way from now on."

"That's it?" Peter said. "He's a killer, Neal. He's going to kill more people. You and I both know it."

"I _do_ know it," Neal said fiercely, "but what am I supposed to do about it? He's _dangerous,_ Peter. You know that firsthand. The best thing we can do is stay away from him."

"That's not the only option!" Peter protested. Neal just looked at him with a complete lack of comprehension. "Neal, this is what the police are for. This is the kind of thing they're _supposed_ to deal with."

The look that crossed Neal's face was ... strange, a blend of hurt and anger with something else mixed in. His voice was soft when he said, "We're all criminals here, Peter. Should I turn myself in too? How about Elizabeth?"

The mental image of Elizabeth in leg chains and prisoner's orange turned Peter's stomach; he forced the thought out of his head. "There's a difference between what you do and what he does. You know there is. And letting Keller walk away from everything he's done -- and worse, go out there to hurt more people, when you could have stopped him --" He wasn't sure why he needed so desperately to get this across. Needed to know that Neal _wasn't_ another Keller, that this bothered him as much as it did Peter. "I know you don't like it any more than I do."

Neal was the one who backed down first, dropping his gaze. "I don't," he admitted, in the tone of one revealing a shameful secret. "I don't, and I wouldn't shed any tears for him if the police did pick him up on that loading dock. But there's a big difference between that and -- what _are_ you suggesting, anyway? Going after him ourselves?"

He hadn't been, but now that he thought about it ... "Does Keller have any nearby bolt holes you know about? We could just call in an anonymous tip." Or not so anonymous, if he could get in touch with Diana.

Neal shook his head. "Back when we worked together, Keller was even more secretive than the rest of us. And he's smart. He won't go anywhere obvious."

Peter drummed his fingers on his leg. "So let's think this through. Keller's dangerous. He's going to hurt people. We want to stop him from doing that." He flicked his gaze up at Neal. "We are on the same page about that, right?"

"Yes," Neal sighed. "But, Peter ... we're _thieves._ We steal stuff. We don't interfere with other thieves."

"They say it takes a thief to catch a thief," Peter said, smiling. "Don't tell me you've never let some criminal you don't like take the fall for something. It's a common tactic."

"Yeah, but ... this feels different," Neal protested. "I mean, he's not a nice guy, but I don't know how comfortable I am passing judgment on him."

"He _shot_ me. He's killed people -- Neal, you _saw_ him kill people. You know it's different," Peter said, and as he said it, he felt that this, _this_ might be the step across the line that he couldn't come back from. No legal institution would back him in this. His words came straight from the heart and he didn't know how he could possibly justify them, but he had to say them anyway. "What he does is different from what you do. He deserves to be in jail where he can't hurt anyone else. You ... don't."

"There are good criminals and bad criminals?" Neal asked lightly, but his eyes were serious. "Who decides which is which?"

"I don't know." Peter sank back on his pillows. "Why don't we save at least a few of the hard questions for when I'm not recovering from emergency surgery in a vet clinic."

It wasn't just a dodge to escape more questions; exhaustion was coming down on him like a collapsing building. Still, as sleep claimed him again, he felt Neal's hand settle on his and give it a light squeeze. 

He squeezed back.


	9. Nine

Neal had thought he'd be dead of boredom within a day of staying with Elizabeth's parents, but actually he found himself liking it here. It had been a long time since he'd stayed somewhere like this, in a little house on a little street full of families and kids playing on bikes.

"Do you think you might like to live somewhere like this?" Neal asked Kate. She'd cut and dyed her hair, which was sensible and yet disconcerting; he kept expecting to see long black hair, then turning his head and getting shoulder-length brown curls instead. "Not right now, I mean, but someday. We could take a couple years off and buy a little house like one of these. Maybe even retire eventually."

"I don't know," she admitted. They were walking hand in hand in the evening light. After dark Kate planned to head out and join Sara. "I think I'd probably get bored. I think _you'd_ get bored. In fact, I think you're bored already -- there's no other reason you'd be humoring Peter's absolutely bugfuck idea."

"I don't think it's that bad," Neal admitted. 

They wandered into a little park, empty of people except for a middle-aged lady walking her dog. She smiled and said hi to them. They said hi back, and waited until she was out of earshot before Kate went on as if there had been no break in the conversation. "It's none of our business, for one thing. Keller goes his way, we go ours -- that's what we want, isn't it? Getting tangled up with him again is just asking for trouble."

"Do you really think he'll stay gone, though?" They had meandered to the swings. Neal sat on one, Kate on the neighboring one, their feet dragging in the wood chips underneath the low rubber seats. "He didn't before. He's going to keep being a problem for us until we do something to stop him from being a problem."

"Could we frame him for something, maybe?" Kate asked, scuffing her feet in the wood chips. "I mean, we could invite him back in, set up a heist and then let him go down for it -- no, that feels _awful_ , I don't know if I could go through with it. Maybe if we had to, if it was us or him ..."

"Peter thinks he should go down for things he's actually done," Neal said. "He's certainly done enough. The problem is, we don't have evidence of any of it."

"Evidence!" Kate said, tipping her head back and letting her new brown curls swing free. "That sounds like something a cop would say."

Neal glanced at her sharply, but she wasn't looking at him, instead gazing up at the sky from under lowered lashes. The sun had set and the sky was the color of a bruise.

"If we could actually make it work," Neal said, "he'd be out of our hair for good." _And all the people he might hurt or kill will be safe._ Stupid Peter, planting that seed in his brain. Now it was all he could think about.

"Does Peter have an actual plan, or is he just pretending to be busy to keep certain people off his back?"

"Both, I think," Neal said, grinning. Peter had resorted to faking sleep to avoid Elizabeth's father, who had been grilling him on every aspect of their relationship.

"I still don't like it," Kate said with a sigh. "But I can't really argue that we have to do _something_ about Keller. And finding a way to dump him on the police is probably the safest for us -- not that any of this is safe." She reached over, gripped Neal's swing chain and pulled the two of them close enough that she could lean out and kiss him. "Should I go away now?" she asked, breaking free. "If this isn't a good time --"

Neal shook his head. "No, it's best for all of us not to be in one place right now. We're certainly not going to do anything until Peter's back on his feet."

Kate kissed him again. "Fair enough. We'll all meet in a month at the Florence safehouse, like we planned."

Neal shook his head. "No. Change of plans. Don't go to Florence. Go to the one in Santorini instead. I'll meet you there."

She drew back, frowning. "Santorini? That's just yours and mine. The only other person who knows about it is Mozzie. Do you think the Florence safehouse is compromised?"

The problem with the Florence safehouse was that Peter knew about it, but he couldn't tell her that. He'd already given Sara and Mozzie their own instructions as well. "We've been using it long enough that Keller might be aware of it. We'll meet in Santorini instead, and go from there."

Kate wasn't stupid. He could see the suspicion and thoughtfulness in her beautiful eyes, but all she said was, "Whatever you think is best." After a moment she added, "Since we're being paranoid today, I keep feeling like someone is watching me. Do you feel that too?"

A chill ran down Neal's spine. He glanced over his shoulder. It was growing dark; the street was cloaked in shadows. "Well, not until you said that." But now that she said it, he _had_ been jumpy. He'd written it off mostly as the usual paranoia when he knew he was on someone's watch list. But maybe it was his subconscious picking up on things his conscious mind hadn't yet caught onto.

They'd had plenty of experience at looking casual while being watched, and they managed to continue being nothing more than two lovers enjoying the evening, holding hands as they strolled casually back toward the house. At this time of night, nearly every house on the block had warmly lit windows, and parked cars were scattered up and down the street. A couple of houses seemed to be hosting evening barbecues or dinner parties. Anyone could be watching from any point along the street.

"Do you want to change plans?" Neal asked quietly.

Kate shook her head. "No. It's only a vague feeling. But be careful. You might want to step up your plans for getting everyone out."

Neal nodded.

"For all I know it's _you_ who's getting me tangled up," Kate added, nudging him. "Santorini. Sure you can't tell me what this is all about?"

"Not yet," Neal said. "By the time we see each other again, I should know for certain. I'll tell you everything then."

She merely nodded. It wouldn't be the first secret they'd kept from each other.

Dinner was a quiet affair. Afterward, Kate and Neal said a private goodbye in the foyer, and then Kate caught a ride with Elizabeth's mother to the nearby Meijer shopping center, where she would call a cab to pick her up. Elizabeth's mom, far from seeming inconvenienced, seemed to be delighting in the cloak and dagger of it all. Neither Kate nor Neal had mentioned their concerns to the others. Neal couldn't see how saying anything would make a difference. All of them were tense and nervous, but Peter wasn't up for travel yet, and Neal knew Elizabeth wouldn't leave him. He'd have to ask her about it later, when he had a chance to speak to her privately, and see if she'd noticed anything out of place herself.

The house felt much too empty after Kate and Mrs. Mitchell left. Following dinner, Peter had retired discreetly to the bedroom, limping wearily. Neal, however, had caught the wink Elizabeth had thrown him, after which she laid out a game of rummy with her father. Too restless to settle down to such mundane pastimes, Neal slipped down the hall, where the soft glow of a reading lamp gleamed from beneath the closed door of Elizabeth's old room. He opened the door quietly and found that Peter was, for once, not faking sleep. The book that Peter had been reading had fallen to his lap; his head was tilted at an awkward angle on the pillow. 

Neal used a bit of pickpocket skill to slide the book out of Peter's limp hands, and then adjusted the pillow so that Peter's neck wasn't quite so twisted. A few days out from surgery, Peter was noticeably stronger and more energetic -- he even had a little color in his face -- but he still tired more quickly than he seemed to realize. 

Outside, tires crunched in the driveway. Neal took a quick peek out the window to make sure it was the Mitchells' minivan, which it was, and Mrs. Mitchell was the only one who got out. So Kate was away. And safe, Neal hoped. Kate was smart, resourceful, and would do better on her own than with the rest of them. They'd done this before when a job went bad. In a month they'd all see each other in Europe.

Assuming that Peter didn't intend to betray them in the meantime ...

Suddenly Neal just needed to get away. Out of the too-small house ... out of the too-small _country._ He tugged a blanket over Peter, who stirred but didn't waken, and turned off the reading light before closing the door behind him.

Mrs. Mitchell had joined the rummy game in the living room. "Neal, honey! Come join us. With four people, we can play bridge."

Neal offered an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry -- I'm going out for a little while, okay?"

"Is something wrong?" Elizabeth asked, her tone casual but her eyes sharp.

"No, it's just ..." He shamelessly decided to play the "absent girlfriend" card. "I'm really missing Kate right now, and I wanted to take my mind off it. Can I pick up anything for the household while I'm out?"

Mrs. Mitchell gave him a shopping list and the keys to the minivan. Elizabeth cornered him on his way out the door. "Do you want me to come?" she asked quietly, her worried gaze searching his face.

Neal shook his head. "It's nothing ... probably." Glancing to make sure the Mitchells weren't close enough to overhear, he lowered his voice. "Kate thought we were being watched earlier. I can't put my finger on anything wrong, but I thought I'd take a spin around the neighborhood and look around. Have you noticed anything yourself?"

Elizabeth shook her head. "I haven't really gone outside, though. Do you think it's anything?"

"I don't know," Neal admitted. "Your parents' security system turns on at ten p.m., right?" She nodded. "I'd go ahead and arm it after I leave, just in case. I'll call you when I need to come in."

"Okay." She gave him a little half-hug. "Be careful."

"I'm always careful," he said. Elizabeth frowned at him, and Neal grinned. "Okay, that's a lie. But I wouldn't do anything that'd put you two at risk."

"I know. Oh, wait a minute." She took down her father's coat and hat from their hooks in the hallway, and handed them to Neal. "Just in case."

"You have learned well," Neal murmured, donning the hat and coat. From a distance, with his face in shadow under the harsh porch light, it should be hard to tell it was a young man and not an old one leaving the house.

"Don't forget the reusable bags, dear!" Mrs. Mitchell called from the living room.

Once he was in the van, with the engine running and the headlights rendering him effectively invisible within, he took a long, careful look down the street. It was just an ordinary small-town street at night. Little towns were harder to blend into than big ones, because everyone knew who was supposed to be on their street and noticed people out of place. If Neal knew Elizabeth, she was even now quietly teasing information out of her parents about any rumors they'd heard of strangers in the area.

He drove to the end of the street, then turned around as if he'd forgotten something, pulled back into the driveway and fake-rummaged under the dome light for a moment before turning it off and pulling back onto the street. No one had stirred from any of the houses; no headlights had come on along the street. 

The night sky was clear. A sliver of moon rode above the houses as he drove toward the shopping complex on the highway. He kept thinking he saw the same set of headlights behind him, but now it was impossible to tell the difference between genuine caution and pure paranoia.

He could just keep driving, he thought. Just go, go, go -- get out of Illinois, get away from Peter's stupidly self-sacrificing plans, away from Elizabeth's friendly family, away from all of the invisible silken bonds that seemed to be settling gently around him.

He could.

It was always an option.

He wasn't entirely sure which decision he'd made until he passed the freeway on-ramp and parked in the shopping center's big, well lighted parking lot.

There were only a handful of items on Mrs. Mitchell's list, but Neal ended up buying two large shopping bags full of items. It was the least he could do, he figured, in return for the Mitchells' hospitality. He got some decent cheese (all they had was _cheddar_ , for God's sake) and the fixings to make chicken cordon bleu tomorrow night. He also picked up a decent bottle of wine.

By the time he got back out to the van, he felt better about the whole situation, although he did take a look at the van's doors to make sure the locks hadn't been forced (they hadn't) before getting in.

There was a sudden rustle from the backseat. "About time you got back," a voice said quietly from behind him.

Neal's heart tried to claw its way out of his chest. He seized the nearest weapon at hand -- a loaf of French bread -- before full recognition settled in. "Kate," he said, releasing the bread. "Are you trying to _kill_ me?"

"Shhh," Kate said. She stayed low, behind the seats. So that no one outside the van could see her. Neal's heart rate kicked up again.

"I thought you were gone."

"No," she said. "I figured it'd be a good idea to stick around and do a bit of snooping around. After saying goodbye to Mary, I circled around back and got into the van."

"Wait, you've been here the whole time?"

"Yes," she said, unperturbed. "Which means I've had a chance to scope things out without anyone seeing me. And you really are being watched, Neal. We all are."


	10. Ten

Diana had never realized how much of a pain it was to conduct surveillance in small-town residential neighborhoods.

She'd rendezvoused with the local FBI out of the Springfield office. She liked the local guy, Special Agent Jones. They got along well. He'd started in New York, he told her, but the New York office's openings were mostly in Missing Persons or Violent Crimes, neither of which appealed to him, so he'd ended up transferring to Chicago and working white collar crime. He'd moved down to the Springfield office because they needed an art crimes expert -- and because his fiancée, an attorney, was offered a good job with the prosecutor's office there.

"And so you get to do things like this," Diana remarked as they had lunch in an Applebee's restaurant on the freeway.

"You know, I thought I'd hate the slower pace down here, but I really like it," Jones said. "It'll be a good place to raise kids. Anne and I are planning a June wedding."

"I was engaged back in DC," Diana said. Meeting his eyes, she said with a bit of challenge, "She called it off."

He didn't even blink. "Her loss."

Yeah, Jones was all right.

Nearly all of Diana's experience, professional and otherwise, was in cities. Jones gave her a brief rundown of the differences for conducting surveillance operations in the medium-sized and smaller towns that comprised all of southern Illinois. "It's not nearly as easy to hide. Especially, let's face it, for you and me."

"You are now entering Whitopia," Diana translated. "Please pick up complimentary sheets at the town hall."

"It's not quite _that_ bad, but once you get out of the bigger towns -- Champaign, Carbondale -- you start to stand out a bit. It's a good idea to drop by the local sheriff's office or the city police, and let them know you'll be working in their jurisdiction. Probably a good idea in any case, but it pays to stay on their good side in these small towns."

"Noted," she said with a slight smile.

Diana had the Google Maps plot of Elizabeth's parents' address. It was smack in the middle of a bunch of residential streets, laid out on a precisely even grid, and a single casual drive-by let her see that Jones had a point about strangers sticking out like a sore thumb in the area. There weren't any trees except for the ones in people's yards. Even the scattered cars along the street were clearly associated with specific houses. There was simply nowhere to _hide._

"So how do you do it?" she asked.

He shrugged. "How do you do it in the city? Become someone they don't look at."

So they located a uniform rental company and picked up a few options. Diana tried wandering around as a UPS delivery person, but couldn't get a good angle on the house. Jones had more luck when he spent a couple of hours in a utility worker's uniform, looking at meters. "There are definitely more people than just the Mitchells staying at that house," he told her. "I got a few shots."

He spread them out on the table of the downtown cafe where they'd met to exchange intel. Most of the shots were in the Mitchells' backyard, from bad angles, but Diana picked one up and tilted it to the light. Her heart skipped a beat and then settled. It was Peter -- Peter, wearing a bathrobe and looking gray and awful (he really _had_ been shot, it _was_ him) -- but alive and vertical, with Elizabeth Mitchell attentively hovering at his elbow, handing him a glass of lemonade.

_Why didn't you contact me, Peter, you ass?_ Maybe he hadn't had an opportunity. She forced herself not to contemplate the other options.

"That's the agent you're handling?" Jones said. She nodded. "Think you can make contact?"

"I'm not sure."

"You think they turned him?" Jones' voice was soft. Sympathetic.

"I don't know!" she snapped, and then rubbed her eyes. "I'm sorry. It's been a long week." _Month. Year._

"If you're sure these are the same gang that tried to knock over the museum, we could put a team together. Take them in."

"I know," she said. "But we couldn't really get them on much. Nothing that'd stick." And Peter ... Peter was such a wildcard at this point. She had no idea which way he'd fall, and that scared her. It was a handler's worst nightmare, having to arrest the agent who was their responsibility. She couldn't pretend not to be aware of the possibility, though. The line between criminals, informants, and undercover agents was a very permeable one. Peter had been walking that line for a long time. It was easy to fall.

"I guess getting permanent surveillance on the house is the first step," Jones said. "Do you have a team with you?"

Diana shook her head. "I came out here playing a hunch. It's just me so far. Since we have eyes on the Orchid now, I can definitely get some people out here, but it'll be tomorrow at the earliest."

"Tomorrow's about the earliest I can get my people together, too -- we aren't a large office, and I have to get the warrants in order." Jones blew on his coffee and then glanced up at her. "It's your case. What do you think the odds are they'll slip the net tonight?"

"I don't know." Her eyes dropped to Jones's photos: Peter in the bathrobe, Elizabeth wearing a sundress and floppy white hat. "To me, it looks like they've settled in for a while. But I'd hate to get this close and then miss them by a few hours. I think I'll probably spend the night out there."

"I can catch some sleep in the evening and spell you after midnight."

She smiled, perhaps her first real smile since leaving DC. "Thanks. I'd appreciate that."

 

***

 

Diana caught an hour's nap herself, and then took advantage of the growing darkness to keep her rental car helpfully anonymous. She parked a few houses down, in a cluster of other cars outside a house that seemed to be having a dinner party. The lights were on in the Mitchell house. Occasionally she saw people moving around inside. Through the binoculars, she was able to identify both Caffrey and Moreau.

The quiet life of a small-town evening went on around her. A few people were walking dogs. Diana scrunched down in her seat whenever anyone passed her car. Across the street from the Mitchells, a couple got out of their car and leaned close to each other, arms around each other's waists. The woman turned to help her little girl out of the backseat, and they all went up the walk to their front door together, the child clinging to her parents' hands. Diana missed Christie with a sudden sharp ache. They'd talked about having kids ...

Movement at the Mitchell house drew her attention. Two women were on the porch. Through her binoculars, Diana identified one as Moreau. The other was probably Mrs. Mitchell. They went to the minivan parked in the driveway.

_Damn,_ she thought, watching them pull out. She wanted to follow, but she hated to abandon surveillance on the house, knowing the others were there. She was tempted to call Jones; it seemed gratuitous to wake him up when the women might just be running errands, however.

Some forty-five minutes later, the minivan returned, with Mrs. Mitchell the sole occupant. Diana kicked herself quietly. Where had they gone? Another safehouse in the area, perhaps? Wherever it was, she'd missed her chance to trail them. 

Or possibly this was the start of a piecemeal exodus, in which case she'd be able to tail them on the next trip.

She tried to find a more comfortable position in the car. Some twenty minutes later, a figure in a hat and coat emerged from the house. Through the binoculars she was pretty sure it was Caffrey. He climbed into the minivan, alone.

Great. Now she really wasn't sure _what_ they were planning. She hunched down in her seat as the van drove past her, then poked her head up enough to get a good look at the minivan's rear end when it slowed for the stop sign at the end of the block. Old cop trick: memorize the taillights. Most cars are distinctive, if not entirely unique.

She was still torn about whether or not to follow, though. And a moment later she was glad she'd been struggling with the decision, because the minivan turned around and returned to the driveway. Parked. The dome light went on and off. Then it pulled out again and cruised slowly down the street. Diana slid down as far as possible, letting the lights wash over the car's interior above her head.

The minivan turned right without flashing a turn signal. Diana gave it another minute, then threw the rental in gear and followed.

She almost lost him a couple of times, trying to hang far enough back not to tip him off, and then _did_ lose him in the complex of chain stores around the freeway. She had to cruise up and down several times before eventually locating the minivan and parking a few cars over.

After a half-hour or so, Caffrey came out of the shopping complex with two large bags and got into the van.

It just looked like an ordinary shopping run. But Moreau had vanished. This might be a supply trip for wherever Moreau had gotten off to.

Diana peered at the van, but the parking lot lights, reflecting off the windows, prevented her from seeing what was going on inside.

 

***

 

The hair on the back of Neal's neck prickled. "You're sure we're really being watched?"

"Positive," Kate said. She was staying low, crouched in the footwell of the minivan's back seats. "I wasn't entirely sure until I'd been in the parking lot for a while, but she's been watching the van with binoculars. She's over there in the silver Fiesta. No, don't look at it!"

Neal jerked his gaze away. Actually, he'd been sitting in the van much too long without doing anything. He started the engine. "You said 'she'. It's not Keller?"

"No," Kate said. "It's a woman. I can't get a good enough look to know for certain if I've seen her before, but I think I saw the same car parked down the street in the Mitchells' neighborhood. It's possible that Keller hired someone to watch us -- but not as likely as the cops, Neal."

A cold, hard anger settled in Neal's chest. "If it is," he said, "I think I know how they found us."

The minivan jolted into motion so abruptly that Kate was thrown against the seats. Neal peeled out of the parking lot. In the rear-view mirror, he saw the Fiesta's lights come on.

"Neal!" Kate said. Now that they were moving, she raised herself a bit, leaning between the front seats so she could see out. "What are you doing?"

"Getting answers," Neal snapped. In the interests of prudence, he took a few quick turns to shake the Fiesta -- temporarily, though, because he already knew that _they_ knew where he was going. And he didn't need more than one guess to figure out where they'd gotten that information.

 

***

 

Peter woke when Elizabeth slipped into the room to check on him. She'd been hovering very close to him ever since he'd been shot, which was both flattering and kind of smothering. The more suspicious side of his nature suspected she had an ulterior motive, except he wasn't sure what that motive could possibly be.

"I'm fine," he promised, but she insisted on bringing him a fresh glass of water and kissing the tip of his nose before leaving him alone again. Peter heard her encounter her father in the hallway, and a brief, very polite semi-argument ensued before she managed to convince him that Peter was resting and they should all go back to the game now.

Peter grinned against his pillow. He might be in his mid-40s, but El's father had a way of reducing him to an eighteen-year-old boy come to escort his daughter to the prom. In all honesty he couldn't actually disagree that, if _he_ had kids and one of them had decided to date a thief, he'd have problems with it too.

He wondered if telling Elizabeth's father that he was an undercover FBI agent would make things better or worse. It wasn't as if he could offer her a better life that way. Or that she'd _want_ a life with him if she knew.

He tried to concentrate on his book, but found himself rereading the same page over and over without seeing it. Tires crunched in the driveway and Peter sat up, then limped over to look out the window. It was the Mitchells' minivan, with Neal driving.

That's right, Kate was leaving tonight. Neal had made plans for everyone to meet up again in Italy. Peter had caught himself listening along and agreeing as if he, too, meant to join them.

The scary thing was, he was thinking about it. He was pretty sure he'd talked Neal into pulling a sting on Keller, and he didn't think the FBI could get Keller without Neal's help. Staying with the gang for awhile longer would give him a chance to close the net around Keller, get him off the street ...

And postpone having to burn any bridges with either Neal's gang _or_ the FBI. It was a compromise and he knew it, but catching Keller was definitely the lesser evil --

The door to his room burst open.

"You _bastard,_ " Neal said. He marched across the room and punched Peter in the mouth.

Peter staggered, almost falling. Neal punched him again for good measure and then took a few quick steps back. He looked as shocked at the violence as Peter himself. His knuckles were smeared with blood.

Peter touched his mouth cautiously. It hurt, but Neal hadn't hit hard enough to do serious damage. His lips had been lacerated on his teeth; he felt the stickiness of blood across his cheek and chin.

Neal was tenderly fingering his knuckles where he'd cut them on Peter's teeth. He still looked furious. "You sold us out. You son of a bitch _fed."_

Peter's legs turned weak for reasons having nothing to do with his injury; he sat down abruptly on the bed. "Neal," he said. "I can explain."

"What's to explain? How could you do this to us? To _Elizabeth."_

Oh God, Elizabeth. The bottom fell out of his stomach, and it just kept falling. "Neal, you have to believe me -- It's a _job,_ and it was never supposed to be more than a job, but somewhere along the way it got complicated. I got ... compromised, I guess. I've been trying to figure out how to tell you --"

"So you sold us out instead," Neal snapped. "Do you think we're stupid? I know what you are. Elizabeth knows too. We were willing to give you the benefit of the doubt, until _this_ \--"

"What did I -- No, wait, what?" Peter held up a hand. "You knew? For how long?"

"Since you got shot. Apparently you talk in your sleep when you're drugged."

Peter couldn't stop staring. "You _knew?_ Do all of you know?"

"Elizabeth and me, but that's not the point, the point is we _protected_ you, we kept your secret, and this is how you repaid us!"

And just when he thought a messy situation couldn't get messier. "Neal, I don't know what you think I did, but I haven't been in touch with my handler since before St. Louis."

"And I should believe you, when you've been lying to us for months?" But Neal's voice was more wry than angry now. He sat down on the end of the bed, though he was perched on the very edge, ready for a fast departure.

Peter pulled a tissue from the box on the bedside table, dipped it in his glass of water, and handed it to Neal for his knuckles. He used another to clean up his blood-smeared lips and cheek.

"Uh, I hope I didn't hurt you too much," Neal muttered, dabbing at his hand.

"I've had worse." The cuts on the inside of his lips still stung. He took a sip of water to rinse the coppery taste away -- and to give him a minute to pull his thoughts together. "I know you have no good reason to believe me, Neal, and I wouldn't blame you ... but whatever you think I did, I'm pretty sure I didn't do it. Which leaves me wondering what's going on, exactly."

"Someone's watching the house," Neal said, crumpling the bloody tissue before pitching it into the wastebasket. "Not Keller. It's a woman. We think she might be a cop."

_Diana?_ Peter wondered if she could have traced him all the way here. He wouldn't put it past her. "Did you get a good look at her?"

"Not enough to --" Neal began, and then broke off as the lights suddenly went out, plunging them into darkness.


	11. Eleven

Diana had just managed to find a new unobtrusive parking spot on the Mitchells' street when the lights in the Mitchell house went out. All of them.

"What the hell?" she murmured, leaning forward. Most of the house's windows had been lit up, but now it was totally dark -- porch light included. Diana glanced up and down the street, but nothing else had changed. It wasn't a power outage.

She wasn't entirely sure what was going on, but it would probably be a good idea to let Jones know that _something_ seemed to be happening. She pulled out her phone, and did a double-take when the screen showed no reception. This might be a small town, but it wasn't _that_ small. Besides, she and Jones had both used their phones in the last few hours.

Someone on the block was using a cell jammer.

And that _really_ wasn't good.

Her car back in DC had a CB radio; she could have called the police that way. But the rental didn't. A sticker on the windshield advertised OnStar service, but that used the cell network too.

Diana rolled down the window of her car and scanned the block with her binoculars. Nothing was out of place. At a house down the street, someone got into their car and drove away. The warm breeze carried the smell of a backyard barbecue and the sound of distant highway traffic and a radio playing somewhere.

It was just another evening in suburbia. If it weren't for the cell jammer, she could believe that the Mitchell house had blown a fuse. But that took it straight to the realm of _really bad stuff is going on._

Diana rolled up her window and pulled away from the curb. The house across the street from the Mitchells had a single car in the driveway and a lamp glowing softly behind closed blinds. She'd seen the couple and their young daughter come home, so someone would be there. Diana pulled into the driveway behind the parked car. Hopefully she'd just look like any visitor to an outside observer, assuming no one had noticed that she'd been parked down the street a minute ago. But there wasn't time to be more discreet. Either Caffrey's crew were pulling something, or someone was about to do something _to_ them -- and the Mitchells would be caught in the crossfire, along with anyone else nearby.

Diana didn't draw her gun, but kept one hand on it as she jogged from the car to the front door and rang the bell. The night was still deceptively quiet. Diana's eyes were in constant motion, examining the street, the sidewalk, the darkened Mitchell house.

No one opened the door. Inside she could hear the sound of a television. Were they asleep? "Come on," Diana murmured, and pounded on the door. She didn't want to give herself away, but it looked like she had no choice. "FBI! I need to come in! You're not in trouble -- I need to use your phone!"

Still no answer, but there was a sudden tremendous thump from somewhere in the house, and then more silence.

Diana cursed under her breath. Feeling terribly exposed, she glanced over her shoulder, then drew her gun and tried the knob. It wasn't locked.

"FBI!" she called, hoping she wasn't making a mistake that would result in the Bureau being slapped with a lawsuit. "I'm coming in. Please come out into the open. I'm not here for you and I'm not going to hurt you."

She edged down the hallway. The living room was lit by a lamp in the window and the flickering light of the flatscreen TV. There was no one on the couch, no one in the chairs. A handful of toys scattered about attested to the presence of the little girl. _What did they do, run upstairs to hide their pot?_

Another sudden thump echoed from deeper within the house. Like most of the other houses on its street, the house was a ranch style, all on one level. Diana cleared the living room and then made her careful way into the hall, trying to look every direction at once.

"FBI! I'm not your enemy," she tried again.

The only light in the hallway came in from the living room. Silhouetted against the light, she'd make a perfect target. Diana pressed herself against the wall and flicked on a light switch. The doors to two bedrooms and a bathroom stood half open.

A whole series of thumps came from the nearest bedroom. Diana edged down the hall and reached in to flick on the light switch. She read the scene in a quick glance through the door.

There was a woman, fully dressed, bound to the bedframe. The thump came again -- the woman was rocking the whole bed, beating it against the wall. She was gagged.

Recovering from her shock, Diana hurried across the room. The woman's face was streaked with tears. Long blond hair -- she was definitely the woman that Diana had seen get out of the car earlier. Diana tugged the gag down gently and held a finger to her lips, then leaned close. "Ma'am, I'm an FBI agent. Is your attacker still in the house?"

The woman had to work her stiff jaws for a moment before she could answer. "My daughter," she stammered. "He has my daughter."

Diana tried to pick at the woman's bonds one-handed, not daring to put down her gun. "Ma'am, I need to know if he's still in the house."

More tears welled in her eyes. "I don't know. He took her."

"He? Just one person?"

"Just one." The woman seemed to be growing calmer now that someone had taken charge of the situation. "He -- he said if I screamed, he'd kill my little girl. And then he took her."

"How long ago?"

"About an hour," the woman gasped. "Maybe two hours. I don't know."

Long before the lights went out at the Mitchell house. Diana finally got one of the hostage's hands freed and left her to finish untying herself. "Ma'am, I'm going to look for your daughter and call for backup. Who else is in the house besides yourself and your daughter? Your husband?"

The woman shook her head as she struggled with her bonds. "I don't have a husband."

_Oh God._ "The man who attacked you -- did he come home with you?"

The woman nodded. "I was picking up Emily at school and when I got into the car, he was in the backseat. He had a gun."

She'd seen him, then. Diana cast her mind back, fighting to remember more details, but all she'd seen was a family coming home -- mother, father, daughter. She hadn't registered details except the woman's blond hair. Could the man have been Caffrey, or someone else in the gang? She had a general impression that she'd seen his face and hands contrast against his darker clothes, so he was white. That didn't exactly narrow it down in this case.

"Stay here," Diana told the hostage, and left the room. She cleared the rest of the house quickly. To her relief, she found the child in the basement, bound hand and foot. "I'm not supposed to make noise or he'll hurt Mommy," the little girl whispered. 

"Shhh. Stay here for a few more minutes, sweetheart." Diana hated to leave her tied up, but it kept her out of harm's way if there was still someone dangerous in the house. She didn't think so, though. She ran back up the stairs. There was a telephone extension in the kitchen, but when she picked it up, the line was dead.

"Damn it!" Diana tried her cell again. Still jammed. One man? A one-man commando team was more like it. Maybe there were more people in the gang that the hostage hadn't seen.

The woman came into the kitchen, limping. "Your daughter's in the basement," Diana told her. "She's fine. I need you to take her and go to the house next door. Use their land line to call the police, and lock the doors. Only open it for a police officer or FBI agent."

The woman started to rush past her. Diana caught her arm. "Wait. Can you tell me --"

She was going to ask for a description of the assailant, but a sudden gunshot cut her off. It came from somewhere outside.

The woman whimpered and vanished down the basement stairs. From below, the little girl started to cry. Diana pressed herself to the wall beside the window and peeked out.

Still nothing moving. She couldn't tell exactly where the gunshot had come from, but she figured the general vicinity of the Mitchell house would be a smart guess.

No backup, civilians everywhere, no idea if Caffrey's gang was having some kind of violent falling out or if someone else was hunting _them_ \-- it was the stuff of which nightmares were made.

_Peter,_ she thought, _I hope you're still on my side, because I sure could use your help right now._

 

***

 

When the lights went out, Neal stayed still, letting his eyes adjust. The room was not completely dark; light spilled in through the window, allowing everything to come back into dim focus.

He went to the window and looked out. The light through the blinds had tipped him off even before he saw that their house was the only one that had gone dark.

"It's just this house," Neal murmured. "Everything else on the street is still lit up."

"Could be a blown fuse," Peter said softly from behind him. "Power surge. They get those in the Midwest."

Neal gave him a look; in the dim half-light, he saw Peter smile grimly. "Yeah," Peter said. "I don't think so either."

"I'm going to look around," Neal said.

Peter's hand shot out and seized his arm, making him jump. "No you don't. Until we know what's going on, we stay together."

"Sure, fine," Neal said testily. "You can let go of me now."

"No," Peter said. "I know you."

He kept hold of Neal's arm all the way to the living room, where they found a group of busy Mitchells in soft, flickering light. Mrs. Mitchell, with a large flashlight clamped under her arm, was setting out vanilla-scented tea lights for Elizabeth to light with a long-handled barbecue firelighter. "We're _always_ prepared, dear," Mrs. Mitchell was saying as they came in. "It's the Midwest. Storms and power outages are a fact of life. Alan, would you check the breaker box, please?"

"Can't find the flashlight," Mr. Mitchell complained, rummaging in drawers.

"There's one by the phone, dear."

Releasing Neal, but still keeping an eye on him, Peter closed on Elizabeth. "I don't think anyone should go anywhere alone," he murmured.

"What? Why? Oh --" Her eyes widened, and she leaned closer to brush his bruised lips with her fingertips. "Who did this?"

"Er, me," Neal said. "Long story, tell you later." He was twitchy, an urgent feeling crawling under his skin. He had left Kate in the van; she would have called him if someone approached the house ... wouldn't she? He needed to be doing something. "Elizabeth, you can show me where the fuse box is. _That's_ all right, isn't it?" he added with a dirty look at Peter, who he still wasn't sure he trusted.

"Uh," Peter said, looking taken aback.

"I think that is an _excellent_ idea," Elizabeth said, looking from Peter's bruised mouth to Neal's skinned knuckles.

Peter continued to make protesting noises, and Neal leaned closer to murmur, "Look, if it's me or a sixty-year-old guy with bad knees --"

"Found it!" Mr. Mitchell said triumphantly, brandishing a flashlight.

"Thank you, sir," Neal said, snatching it out of his hand. "I'll check that for you. Guest's prerogative. Elizabeth was just going to show me where it is."

"Uh, yes. Don't worry, Daddy. Call the power company and don't let Mom get excited -- her heart, you know." El kissed her father on the cheek and joined Neal, who contrived to stay out of Peter's reach just in case.

"It's in the garage," Elizabeth said, leading him into the kitchen. As soon as they were out of earshot, she whispered fiercely, "All right, what on Earth is going on? Did you and Peter have a _fistfight_?"

"It's complicated." But, thinking about it, he decided El had a right to know. "Someone tailed me from the house. I thought it might be Peter, because of -- what we talked about."

"Was it?" Elizabeth asked, stopping with her hand on a narrow door that he presumed led to the garage.

"No," Neal said, "but ... he admitted to being an agent, Elizabeth. It's true."

"Oh," she said softly. It was more an exhalation than a word -- the sound of a woman shot through the heart.

"I'm sorry."

"I know." For a moment her face was a study in pain; then it firmed up and her lips stopped trembling. "Well, if we're checking the fuse box, let's do it. Do you think Keller did something?"

"I don't know," Neal admitted. "I haven't heard from Kate. She's standing sentry duty outside."

Elizabeth opened the door to the garage. Neal's flashlight played across a room choked with assorted junk: piles of boxes, old furniture, bicycles, tires. "We haven't been able to park the car in here since I was a teenager," El said. "The breaker box is over here."

Neal tried to look all ways at once as she led him unerringly through the mess. A workbench along one wall held an assortment of woodworking tools; there was a crisp smell of pine shavings. "Dad's wood shop," El said, opening the gray metal cover of the circuit box on the wall. "He always wanted to build a better one in the backyard, but Mom wouldn't let him because they'd have to tear out her flowerbeds. Hold the flashlight up for me; I can't see."

Neal leaned over her shoulder, shining the flashlight across the rows of circuit breakers. Every one of them was thrown to "OFF." "Well, that's clearly the problem," he said, reaching past her to flip the one controlling the garage lights.

El caught his hand. "Yes, but what could throw all the breakers at once? When I was a kid, we'd sometimes trip one -- usually when someone tried to run the vacuum cleaner on the wrong outlet while the washing machine was going too. The wiring in this house is pretty old. But this is weird. Shine the light down there -- what's that?"

Neal cocked the flashlight downward. Wires snaked from the bottom of the circuit array, vanishing over the lip of the breaker box into darkness. "Does it normally look like that?" he asked, instantly suspicious.

"Maybe Dad's been working on some kind of home improvement project," El said. She reached for the wires, then snatched her hand away and caught her breath.

Neal would have asked what she'd seen, but something smashed into the side of his head and his world exploded in stars and darkness.

 

***

 

Peter checked that front door was locked and then went to the back door to check the locks there, too. He was just turning around when a sudden thump came from a few feet to his left -- _inside_ the house. Peter nearly jumped out of his skin and seized the nearest thing at hand, an umbrella hanging on a hook.

"Oh, stop it," Kate's voice said from not too far away. Her silhouette appeared, framed against a block of dim light. "It's me."

"I thought you left," Peter said. "Wait, did you come in through the _window?"_

"It was unlocked," she said defensively, closing and latching it. "You need to talk to the Mitchells about their household defenses. Where's Neal?"

"Checking the breaker box." Peter fumbled for the hook where he'd gotten the umbrella. "Did you see anything outside?"

"Yes," Kate said. "There's a woman who's been following us and she's packing heat. She's in the house across the street now. I was going to call and tell you, but -- check your phone."

"I don't have one on me."

"Oh good grief," Kate sighed. She held up her phone. The screen read NO SERVICE. "I know it was working earlier because I was playing solitaire online. I think the connection went down around the time the lights went out."

Panic rushed through his veins like ice water. He forced his head to clear. The doors were locked. They were all inside. The power outage would have cut the security system, but the doors were locked and bolted. "Cell jammer," he said. "We have to get everyone together --" and then discovered he was talking to her back, as she'd spun around to head for the living room.

"Try to keep up," Kate said over her shoulder.

When they arrived in the living room, the Mitchells had discovered the lack of phone service and were having a very polite, Midwestern sort of argument about whether a power outage could knock out the cell towers. "No, dear, I believe they have a backup generator," Mrs. Mitchell said mildly as she arranged tea lights next to the dark, inert television. "Peter, hold these, please?"

Peter accepted a handful of unlit tea lights, having little choice, and dropped them in a jumble on top of the stereo.

"Land line's dead too," Kate said, holding up the extension.

"Are there any weapons in the house?" Peter asked loudly. The Mitchells' friendly argument cut off in the middle.

" _Excuse_ me?" Mr. Mitchell said.

Peter made a snap decision. This was the sort of situation that didn't need an injured thief; this situation needed Special Agent Peter Burke. It was time to stop pretending to be anything other than what he was. "I'm an undercover FBI agent," he said. Kate's gasp was small and sharp, and felt as if it tore something deep inside him. "And I think we might be under attack," he said, looking at the stunned Mitchells rather than at Kate. He straightened his back and put the full force of command into his voice. He was, by God, an FBI agent taking charge of a scene. "Now, are there weapons in the house?"

The Mitchells responded to the voice of authority by falling into line, as people usually did. Peter had never been quite sure how to feel about that, but it had the advantage of being very useful in certain situations. "I have an old .22 squirrel-hunting rifle," Elizabeth's father said. "It used to be my dad's. I don't know if it still works."

"Where is it?"

"No, dear, your cousin borrowed it, remember?" Mrs. Mitchell said.

"Tom can't possibly _still_ have it. That was fifteen years ago."

God. Peter resisted the urge to tear his hair out. ""Do any of the inside doors in the house have locks?" he interrupted again.

"The bathroom, I think," Mrs. Mitchell supplied.

"Not the bedrooms?"

She shook her head.

Kate hadn't said anything. Peter glanced at her. She was very still, her hands curled into fists. "You son of a bitch," she said quietly.

"You can yell at me later," Peter said. "Right now we need to get these people somewhere safe, and then go find El and Neal so we can all hole up somewhere."

"The hell with that," Kate snapped. "Trap ourselves like rats? There's a perfectly good getaway vehicle out front."

"Running is dangerous and short-sighted. All we have to do is find a safe place and hold out 'til backup gets here."

"Backup? From who? The police?" Her tone was scornful. "The police don't help people like us. They _arrest_ people like us, or have you forgotten? -- or, rather, people like the _rest_ of us, I should say."

It shouldn't have hurt to feel himself suddenly on the other side of a line from the rest of them. This was what he'd wanted, wasn't it? He never found out if he'd have won the argument, though, because of a sudden muffled thump and clatter from the direction Neal and Elizabeth had gone.

 

***

 

The outside of the Mitchell breaker box was painted dull gray, but inside it was glossy and slightly reflective, and in that reflection Elizabeth glimpsed Matthew Keller, a cap pulled down over his hair, an instant before he smashed Neal in the head with a tire iron.

Neal fell and the flashlight fell with him, the light spinning crazily across thirty years' worth of accumulated Mitchell family junk. Then it hit the concrete floor with a crunch and the light went out.

Elizabeth flung herself backward and felt the breeze as the tire iron whistled through the air where she'd just been standing. She collided with a stack of cardboard boxes and scrambled behind them, rebounding off an old sofa and then plunging her foot into a tangle of wires that snared her as neatly as a bear trap.

"No need to run away," Keller's voice said softly from the darkness, only a few feet away. "Or perhaps I should say it won't do you much good."

Elizabeth didn't dare move. The room was dark as a tomb. She couldn't take another step without making a racket, and she was terribly afraid that anything she did to untangle herself would make noise also. Holding her breath, she bent over to feel with light little taps of her fingertips the item tangled around her foot. Round and knobbly -- it was a bicycle tire, and the tassels brushing across the back of her hand let her know that it was her sister's old bike, outgrown many years ago. _Why did we even keep this thing?_ she thought in desperate fury as Keller's feet scuffed lightly on the concrete, sounding close enough to touch her. _Why don't my parents ever throw anything away?_

Then she realized that if she made noise it would distract Keller from Neal, who might still be alive. That thought gave her the courage to wrench her foot free of the spokes, with a loud twang and a painful scrape across her ankle. She plunged deeper into the maze of junk.

"I told you it won't do any good," Keller said. Sudden light threw shadows over her and up the walls. She had an instant to hope that the power had come back on before the light moved jerkily; it was only a flashlight after all, a bigger and more powerful one than Neal had been carrying. She crouched lower in her canyon between stacks of boxes. 

Shadows danced around her as the flashlight beam moved. Elizabeth crawled away and peeked through a gap between two stacks of boxes. She could see Neal sprawled on the floor, unmoving; her stomach lurched. Keller wasn't near him, but the moving flashlight beam gave her the clue to his location. She ducked down behind an old filing cabinet and the beam swung over her head. 

When she was a girl she used to play hide and seek with her sister all over the house -- attic, garage, back garden. This experience threw her back to those days. She knew all the best hiding spots in the house, but no one had been chasing her with lethal intent before. This game was deadly serious.

_And I can't leave Neal._

"Is this really any way to treat an old friend?" Keller's voice was cheerful. "Why don't we have a cup of coffee and catch up on old times. I always liked you best, you know."

Elizabeth retreated toward the garage door. She knew exactly where the controls for the door were, if they hadn't been completely blocked by junk since she'd moved out. If she raised the door, Keller would think she'd gone that way, and she could get back to Neal. "You shot my boyfriend and nearly got us all caught," she called. "You'll excuse me if I'm not in the mood for a happy reunion."

Keller laughed, picking his way through the junk toward her. "Yeah, let's talk about lover-boy Lear, why don't we."

She found the button on the wall by touch. It was placed high, out of the reach of children's inquisitive fingers. Elizabeth pressed it. Nothing happened, and her stomach flipped over. The power outage. She couldn't believe she'd forgotten it wouldn't work.

"I've got some bad news for you, sweetheart," Keller said. "I did a little research after our falling out."

She'd allowed herself to be cornered. Elizabeth made a desperate break for it, but came up short as the flashlight's beam stabbed her in the face.

"His name's not Lear," Keller said, "and he's no burglar." He tossed the tire iron carelessly into the piles of junk and drew a pistol from his pocket, which he pointed at her. "You want to know what he really is?"

Elizabeth squared her shoulders. "Yes, he's a cop," she said, her heart tripping over.

She'd actually managed to shock him. With the flashlight half blinding her, she couldn't make out his expression, but there was a brief silence. Then Keller said, "I have to give you credit. I never figured you for the backstabbing kind."

"I never betrayed anyone," El said.

"Oh? Running around with a fed? Inviting him into our safehouses? You're betraying someone for certain. The question is, who's the chump -- your friends, or your dear Peter?"

She had no opportunity to answer. The door from the house opened and Peter's voice said, "Elizabeth? Neal?"

"Peter!" she screamed. "It's Keller! He's armed!"

 

***

 

Peter flinched back. Kate was right behind him, and he seized a handful of her shirt and flattened her against the wall. All his plans had relied upon keeping the danger _out_ , never guessing that it was already inside with them.

"Well, I suppose it's a party now," Keller said. He sounded cheerful and not worried at all. "Lear? Or should I say Burke? Why don't you come out where I can see you."

"Get Elizabeth's parents somewhere safe," Peter whispered. "I don't think he knows you're here."

Kate wrenched free of him. "You can't tell me what to do, _fed,"_ she spat at him.

"They're an old guy with bad knees and a nice old lady with a bad heart," he whispered back. "They opened up their home to us and took a tremendous risk."

"Damn you," Kate muttered and faded into the shadows.

"Burke?" Keller said, a sharper note in his voice. "Do I need to remind you I have hostages in here?"

There was a soft gasp from Elizabeth, and a thump. Peter's stomach twisted. Holding his hands out to the sides where Keller could see they were empty, he stepped through the door into the garage.

Keller had a gun in one hand and a flashlight in the other. He'd pushed Elizabeth down, but she didn't seem to be hurt. She was sitting on the floor.

"Where are the old folks?" Keller asked. Elizabeth turned wide, desperate eyes on Peter.

"They won't be any harm to you," Peter said. "They're just an old couple who've never had anything to do with our side of the law."

"Uh-huh," Keller said. He shone the flashlight around, and then jerked his chin in a particular direction. "Seems like there's a little bit of everything in here. Burke, get that rope."

Peter got it. He didn't really see that he had a choice. His heart skipped a beat when he saw Neal lying on the floor; it was impossible to tell if Neal was hurt or dead. There had to be _something_ to do other than just follow orders, but he had no weapons and he knew he couldn't overpower Keller by brute force. There were plenty of objects around that could be used for blunt-force attacks, but he'd get exactly one chance, and Keller was the one with the gun.

"Now you two tie each other up." Keller grinned. "Sounds like fun, huh?"

"For you, maybe," Peter muttered. He looped the rope around their feet, moving slowly and taking his time.

There was a faint moan from Neal's direction. Peter tried not to let his relief show. "Ah," Keller said, "look who's decided to join the party. Just in time for my graceful exit."

_Oh God,_ Peter thought. Keller _would_ kill them; he had no doubts about that. "Listen," he said. "I know you don't like me --"

"Don't like you?" Keller said. He laughed. "Let's be accurate here. I hate everything about you."

"Fine," Peter said. He tried to maneuver himself between Keller and Elizabeth. "Your grudge is with me -- not them. _They_ gave you a second chance. I'll walk out of here with you, if you don't hurt them."

"Oh, don't worry. As long as you're all cooperative, I won't be hurting anyone." Keller nudged Neal with the toe of his shoe. "C'mon, Caffrey. Wakey-wakey."

"Somehow I find it hard to believe you cut the power, broke in here and don't plan to hurt anyone," Peter said grimly.

"Oh, but I don't." Keller laid the flashlight on the floor to free up a hand so that he could grip Neal's arm and pull him to his feet. Neal was barely conscious, weaving in place, the side of his face covered in blood. "I'm not going to shoot any of you. I'm just going to take Caffrey and we're going to leave together."

"The hell you are," Peter said. He started to rise to his feet. Keller waved the gun in his direction and Peter angrily desisted.

"I believe you were supposed to be tying yourself to the lovely Ms. Mitchell." Keller gave Neal a little shake. "Caffrey, do me a favor and pick up the flashlight."

Neal didn't respond. It was hard to tell how much of his surroundings he was aware of. Keller rolled his eyes and steered Neal away without it -- one hand on Neal's arm, the other on the gun.

"I was intrigued to notice that Elizabeth already seemed aware of your traitorous tendencies," Keller said. Peter was unable to meet Elizabeth's eyes. "I'll just let you two lovebirds work out your differences while Caffrey and I take a stroll."

"Is there some part of 'no' you're having trouble with?" Peter stood up, slipping his foot out of the loose loop of rope.

Keller raised the gun. "Listen, just because I _planned_ to leave without bloodshed doesn't mean I have any particular problem with shooting you two, if you're going to push me."

Neal's eyes moved. Peter noticed only because the dark swatch of blood across Neal's face made the whites of his eyes stand out. Neal cut his eyes sideways and then stared at Peter, mouthing something soundlessly. Peter had absolutely no idea what Neal was trying to convey, and forced himself not to stare, so Keller wouldn't notice. 

"You haven't done anything yet that you can't come back from," Peter said, trying to buy time -- and keep Keller from noticing that Neal was trying to signal them somehow.

What was Neal looking at? He seemed to be looking in the direction of the breaker box, then back at Peter. His eyes kept going out of focus and crossing.

"Oh, I wouldn't be too sure of that," Keller said. His lips stretched in something not quite a smile. "Come on, Caffrey."

He pulled Neal sideways, and Peter thought _Just like that? He's just leaving with Neal, leaving the rest of us untied and unharmed?_ That didn't seem like any kind of proper revenge. Neal was still mouthing something desperately, a single word. And finally the pieces tumbled together.

Neal was saying _Bomb._

Then Kate popped up in the darkened doorway and smashed a vase over Keller's head.

The vase was not empty. Water, carnations, and pieces of glass exploded in a cascade over Keller, Neal, and everything near them. The gun went off in a random direction, a single shot cracking into the garage wall as Keller dropped it.

Peter launched himself into motion, swinging at Keller. His body's weakness, momentarily forgotten, threw off his aim and rather than connecting solidly with Keller's jaw, his fist glanced off the other man's arm. A tearing pain ripped through his chest and he fell too, landing in a soggy tangle with Keller and Neal on the floor.

Keller thrashed free and scrambled for the gun, which had skittered somewhere out of sight in the shadows on the floor. Elizabeth and Kate dived for it together, piling into him -- and, accidentally, each other. The resulting struggle was impossible to parse in the stark black and white of the flashlight's beam; there were only flashes of dark hair and black-clad shoulders and soft grunts and gasps as they grappled with each other.

Sparks danced at the edge of Peter's vision and his chest felt hot and too tight, but he pushed himself up to his knees and got an arm around Neal. "You okay?"

"No," Neal said thickly. "My head -- ow --" He touched his forehead and his fingers came away dark and shiny with fresh blood.

"You said there's a bomb," Peter reminded him.

"Oh." Neal blinked, his expression dazed. "Yes. I saw it when I was on the floor. Giant block of plastique." He pointed vaguely.

Peter turned and saw it too: a large gray cube taped under the workbench. Wires snaked up to the breaker box. Peter didn't know much about demolitions, but he could guess how this was supposed to work. The power had gone out, so they would throw the breakers to turn it on ...

"Do you know how to disarm something like that?"

Neal shook his head, then the blood drained out of his face, and he doubled over and retched. Peter kept him from falling over, not really sure what else to do. "Sorry," Neal moaned, cradling his head in his hands.

Someone yelped in pain -- it was a man's voice -- and then Keller vaulted over them and vanished into the darkened house. "Damn it!" Kate shouted, rising to go after him, but Elizabeth pushed past her.

"Mom! Dad!" Fleet as a gazelle, Elizabeth bounded after him.

Peter caught Kate's leg as she tried to rush past. "Bomb," he said succinctly. "We have to get everyone out."

"Aw shit." Kate knelt to get Neal's arm over her shoulder. She did not offer Peter a hand up. He struggled to his feet on his own, picked up the flashlight and took another look at the cube of explosive material. This was well outside his experience, though. All he could think to do was get away.

If Keller had been taking Neal with him, then he must have planned to make Neal watch the house blow up with his friends inside. Electricity might trigger the bomb, but that was an uncertain method at best. Which meant Keller had his own means of detonating the bomb --

\-- which meant they all had to get out _now._

He stumbled into the living room on Neal and Kate's heels. The front door stood wide open. Elizabeth was herding her confused parents in that direction.

"Keller!" Kate snapped at Elizabeth, who wordlessly pointed toward the open door.

_Shit shit shit._ Once Keller was out of the house, he'd have no reason not to push the button and blow them all to hell. Peter pushed past Elizabeth, past Neal and Kate, trying to run despite the pain tearing through his chest. He stumbled out into the driveway --

The sight that greeted his eyes was so unexpected that all he could do was stand there staring.

Keller was down on his face on the sidewalk. Diana knelt on top of him, twisting his hands behind his back and snapping an abbreviated version of his Miranda rights as she cuffed him.

Another sound percolated through Peter's consciousness: distant sirens wailing, coming closer.

Diana hadn't seen him yet. He looked over his shoulder just in time to see a hasty conference between the Mitchells and their daughter. Kate and Neal were nowhere to be seen. Mrs. Mitchell nodded and squeezed Elizabeth's hands.

It didn't take a rocket scientist to know that if the police were on their way, the wanted criminals couldn't be here.

Elizabeth looked up, toward Peter. The emotions that played across her face were complex, but then she raised a hand and beckoned him.

Peter shook his head. He jerked his head toward Diana with her cuffed prisoner, and smiled a little. 

The pain and, worse, the anger on Elizabeth's face broke his heart. He limped back toward her. "Someone has to explain," he said over the growing wail of the sirens. "About the explosives -- all of it. Someone has to testify against Keller. You can't. I can."

"It's all true, then," Elizabeth said. Her expression was unreadable. "You really are one of them."

"Kate and Neal?"

"Out the back," she said.

"You'd better go too."

"I know," she said softly.

Peter leaned closer. He didn't kiss her goodbye -- instead he whispered something into her ear, a single word. The familiar smell of her hair almost undid him.

Then he turned to the Mitchells, knowing that if he didn't, he wouldn't have the strength to leave at all. "You'd better get away from the house," he told them, and herded them down the driveway. When he looked back, Elizabeth was gone.

All the strength was ebbing out of him. He had to sit on the sidewalk. The next thing he knew, Diana bent over him. "Long time, no see," she said.

"I have one hell of a report to make. But first, you need to know the house is wired."

"Wired?"

"Explosives," he said wearily. "Set up a cordon. Get a bomb squad down here." He jerked his head at Keller, facedown on the sidewalk with local police closing around him.

"On it," Diana said, and sprang to her feet.

The next opportunity he had to talk to her was some time later. The street had filled up with emergency vehicles and police and amazed reporters for the local paper, who probably hadn't seen anything this exciting in their entire careers. The house and yard were cordoned off, and Peter was sitting in the back of an ambulance while a paramedic boggled at his surgical scars and Peter tried to decided how much to tell her of what had actually happened to him.

Diana showed up and sat on the ambulance's rear bumper at his feet. "They got the bomb taken care of," she said. "Bombs plural, actually. One in the garage, one at the back of the house. Set to blow at a cell phone signal."

"The area was jammed."

"I know," she said. "Keller left the cell jammer in the neighbor's car. I guess the plan was to use the car as a getaway vehicle, turn it off once he was clear and blow the place. Or the power coming back on would've done it too, they said."

Peter rubbed his forehead. "How'd you find us?"

"I knew Mitchell's parents were in the area. It wasn't hard from there."

They both looked up as a woman and a small girl were led from one of the houses across the street to another ambulance. Diana smiled briefly and then returned her attention to Peter. "I know they were here earlier," she said quietly. "Caffrey and the rest. I've been watching the house for a while."

"They _were,"_ Peter said. "Plural. They're long gone now."

Her eyes were sharp and perceptive. "I can call the staties, have roadblocks set up."

"You're not going to catch Caffrey and Mitchell with roadblocks."

"Damn it, Peter. Work with me. Do you have any idea where they might have gone?"

"No," he said sincerely. "No idea at all."

 

***

 

In a stolen car humming northward on the highway, Kate tended Neal's head injury while Elizabeth drove.

"Ow," Neal muttered. It was hard to think. His head still throbbed in time with his heartbeat. The swaying of the vehicle and the strobing of street lights across the seats was aggravating his nausea. He tried not to move too much.

"How is he?" Elizabeth asked over her shoulder.

"Wishing I wasn't going to miss out on seeing Keller get his comeuppance," Neal muttered.

"I don't think it's too bad, but we should definitely keep an eye on him for the next couple of days," Kate said. "Do you want to lie down?" 

Anything had to be better than sitting up, so he let her help him lie down on the back seats with his head in her lap. The movement wasn't too bad as long as he kept his eyes shut.

"I hope my parents are all right," Elizabeth fretted.

"You said it yourself earlier," Kate pointed out. "They're probably having the time of their lives."

"True." She went silent and pensive. Neal could guess the reason.

"Think he'll sell us out?" Kate asked after a few minutes.

Elizabeth didn't answer. Neal opened his eyes, squinting against the pain, and said, "There's not much he can actually _do._ We didn't have any more jobs lined up. We can burn the safehouses he knows about, lie low for a while. We'll be okay."

In this line of work, a person learned to deal with betrayal. It usually stopped hurting eventually -- or at least hurt less. This would too, he knew. In time.

From the front seat, Elizabeth said suddenly, "He said something to me, before he left."

Kate reached between the seats to touch her shoulder. "Elizabeth. Honey. Don't."

Elizabeth brushed it off. "Florence," she said. Her voice cracked in the middle. "That's what he said. Florence."

Neal felt bruised in more ways than just the physical. "Could be a trap."

"I know," she said quietly. "I know."


	12. Epilogue - 1

Peter found it strange to be back in DC as if nothing had happened. Except ... everything had.

Flying was contraindicated after chest surgery -- along with basically everything else he'd done lately -- so Peter's parents flew out from New York to pick him up from the hospital and drive him to DC. It was a slow trip, with a lot of stops along the way. At first he tried to sleep most of the time; he didn't even have to fake it. Conversations with his parents had become extremely awkward the last few years, because so much of his life he couldn't talk about, and it was even worse in this case. _"Where have you been for the last few months, son?"_ _"Sorry, can't tell you. How are things on the farm?"_

But at some point the floodgates opened. He couldn't even remember afterwards what had done it -- there was no conscious decision, no tipping point; he just found himself telling his parents about Elizabeth, and from there, telling them everything. He had wondered how Elizabeth could manage to be open with her parents about what she did, but now he understood that it would have been much harder not to.

His parents were uncertain at first. He didn't blame them. He was pretty sure that if one of his fellow agents had told him they'd fallen in love with a criminal and planned to run off to the far side of the world, he would have arrested them on the spot. But there was none of the condemnation and anger that he'd feared, either. They were willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, at least -- they gave him the time to talk them into some kind of acceptance. And they were both staying with him in DC while he recovered, so he'd have time to wear them down.

"This Elizabeth sounds like quite a girl," his mother said. "I think I might like to meet her someday."

"I hope you can." He didn't even have a picture of her -- not a proper picture, at least; just long-distance surveillance photos from her file. And no pictures at all of the two of them together.

In some ways, the last few months might never have existed.

It did begin to seem dreamlike once he was settled back in DC. His apartment here had never felt like home, but it was familiar. There was the coffee shop down the street, and the restaurants he liked going to. Friends from the Bureau stopped by to check on him and chat a bit, and he had the usual reams of paperwork to fill out, the usual not-quite-mandatory offers of counseling. In most ways, it could have been normal downtime between cases, healing and recovering and getting ready to go back in the field again. There were entire hours, days even, when he'd forget that it wasn't -- when he'd find himself thinking about the next time and then thinking, wait, there isn't going to be a next time.

He wrote his letter of resignation as soon as he got back to DC, still half buzzed on painkillers -- maybe he needed that extra lowering of inhibitions to be able to do it. Then the letter sat on his desk for three weeks, which was how long it took him to recover enough to take the subway to the office and walk in without having to stop and rest every few steps.

He could have emailed it, but he needed to deliver it in person.

He'd already delivered his grand jury testimony on Keller. He had been very precisely, scrupulously honest, even while being all too aware of the many things he _wasn't_ saying. He had also been hurting and exhausted. Today he felt somewhat better -- by no means back to a hundred percent (it would take months to get there, his physical therapist said, if he ever did) but at least he felt like himself again.

In fact, he felt more like himself than he had in years. He still had doubts about his decision, maybe always would, but today, at least, it felt like the right one. He fielded friendly greetings and inquiries after his health as he made his way through the bullpen to Kramer's office.

"Petey!" Kramer greeted him with a hearty handshake. "You're looking a lot better. Don't feel like you have to rush back to work, though. Take your time."

"Actually, work is why I'm here." Peter started to smile, but it felt stiff. Instead he held out the letter.

Kramer unfolded it. Read it. Shook his head slowly. "Pete, I know you've been through a lot. I know you're used to wins and this time the bad guys got away. But -- don't rush into anything. Take some vacation time. Think it through."

"I've thought it through," Peter said. "I've done nothing but think. And I'm pretty sure this has been coming for a long time."

 

***

 

Diana had heard Peter was back in the office, but by the time she had a chance to extricate herself from under a mountain of paperwork and stop by to see him, the _other_ news had trickled around the office as well. No one was quite sure how to react. Peter was an institution. He was just a few months away from getting his twenty-year pin. Everyone had assumed he was on track for Kramer's job when Kramer retired.

And now he was leaving.

She watched him at his desk for a moment or two. A cardboard box rested on the edge of the desk and he was packing up the scanty personal items that he kept around. For the most part, Peter's desk was tidy and utilitarian -- it wasn't like he was there much -- but he did have a few things: a picture of his parents, a crossword puzzle trophy. He was still thin and pale, but not nearly as bad as when she'd seen him in Illinois. He was moving slowly and carefully to avoid jarring his healing chest. Then he looked up and saw her, and flashed her a quick smile. Diana couldn't quite bring herself to respond with one of her own, but she came over to join him.

"From the look on your face," Peter said, "I guess you heard."

"I assume Kramer has already tried to argue you around, so I won't bother."

Peter started to shrug, then winced. "I can be pretty stubborn."

"I know I'm a junior agent, and it's not really my place to ask ... but are you sure this isn't just the injury talking? You might feel differently in a few weeks."

Peter shook his head. He poked through the contents of a drawer, then gave up and dumped the whole thing into the box with little jingles of paper clips. Then he stepped away from the desk and started to pick up the box.

Diana moved forward quickly and took it out of his hands. "I'm no medical professional, but it doesn't take a doctor to guess you're not supposed to be carrying heavy objects. Let me take this down to the car for you."

"For my part," Peter said, "let me buy you lunch. You're a good agent, Berrigan, and a good handler. I'm going to miss working with you."

As it turned out, Peter hadn't brought a car, so Diana drove him _and_ his box home, and then they had a quiet lunch at a little cafe down the street from his apartment. They didn't talk about the future or the past; instead they chatted lightly about Diana's current cases. Peter told a couple of anecdotes of his parents' adventures sightseeing around DC. Then he paid the bill, and Diana had the sense of something winding down to a close.

"You ever think about getting out?" he asked her as they stepped out onto the sidewalk. Autumn was still hanging on; the wind was brisk and clean.

"Of the Bureau, you mean?" Diana asked, surprised. "No. I like the work."

"That. Or DC," Peter said. "There's a lot more to life than a desk in the Hoover building, pushing papers around."

She'd been kicking around an idea, and before she knew she was going to mention it, she'd already begun pouring it out. "Actually, I was thinking about maybe transferring to Chicago. I got along really well with the liaison officer out of Springfield, and he said they might have an opening coming up for someone to run an Art Crimes task force there. He'd put in a word for me if I wanted to apply." Everything around DC reminded her of Christie these days. Maybe it was time for a fresh start.

"You should take it," Peter said. He smiled at her, and held out a hand. His grip wasn't quite up to full strength, but it was warm and firm. "You'd do well."

Diana held the handshake as long as she could, and let go only with reluctance. "Send a postcard," she said. "Let me know you landed okay. I'll do the same."

"If I can, I will," Peter said. He smiled again, and turned away.

That was her last view of him, limping away down the street in the autumn sunshine. Despite the injury still making him stiff and slow, his shoulders were straight. If Diana didn't know better she'd say it was like a weight had lifted from him -- she could see it lift, almost, with every step he took.

She did wonder later what he'd meant by _If I can._ Where was he planning on going, anyway?


	13. Epilogue - 2

The house in Florence was just as they'd left it, down to the unopened bottles of wine in the cellar. Neal and Elizabeth opened up the house and aired it out, restocked the kitchen, got ready to stay for a while.

The others hadn't joined them. Once the full story came out, Mozzie, Kate and Sara were united in thinking that Neal and Elizabeth were being fools. Neal couldn't help agreeing with them, and he'd made sure that he and El had a well-plotted escape route and a wide-open back door, just in case.

And then it was just a matter of waiting.

In actual fact it was more like a month and a half. It was afternoon; he and El were playing chess in the shaded courtyard with glasses of chilled sangria when the door opened.

No alarms had gone off, which could only mean someone who knew about the house's security system and how to disable it. Still, Neal tensed, and stayed tense even as Peter entered a patch of sunshine just inside the courtyard walls.

Peter still looked wan and pale. He was wearing a loose white shirt and jeans. When he saw them, he smiled; it was hesitant and a little shy.

"You're late," Neal said.

Elizabeth scrambled to her feet and pulled out a chair for him. "I'll just get another glass," Neal said, and vanished to the kitchen, where he did a thorough check of the house's security cameras and ensured that Peter had come alone. He reset the security system and locked the door. Then he brought another glass and the iced half pitcher of sangria out to the courtyard.

He had successfully managed to miss the lovers' reunion, which had promised to be all kinds of awkward for an onlooker no matter which direction it went. By now they were both seated and not saying much. Neal diluted Peter's glass of sangria with extra fruit juice before handing it over. Peter didn't look like a guy who was in any condition to have a lot of alcohol.

"How's your head?" Peter asked.

Neal reached up reflexively to touch his forehead. There was, to his annoyance, a small scar, though it was covered by his hair. "Better. I still get headaches a bit." He smiled viciously. "How's Keller?"

"Buried deep in the system," Peter said with an equally grim smile. "I'll need to go back stateside to testify at his trial." At their alarmed looks, he added, "I'm not wanted for anything, and I'm not an FBI agent anymore. Just a private citizen. I can travel if I want to."

"Not an agent," Neal repeated.

"You can check if you want," Peter said. "I quit. And yeah, I know there's no way I can prove it isn't deep cover. We're all simply going to have to live with that." He hesitated. "Do all the others know? About -- me."

"Of course they know," Neal said. "Notice they aren't here."

Peter smiled faintly. "I noticed."

"It'll take time," Elizabeth said. She was sitting very near Peter, but not quite touching him. It would take time for her, too.

A silence settled on the courtyard. Neal topped off his glass of sangria.

"You know I'm still not comfortable with some of the things you do," Peter began.

"Only some of it?" Neal asked. Peter gave him a sharp look. "All right, that wasn't entirely fair. But we're not going to change what we do to suit your, er, federal sensibilities."

"I know that," Peter said. "I've been doing a lot of thinking, though. As you now know, I'm not a burglar. I don't actually have any skills to bring to your group except one thing. There's one skill I've got that I don't think _any_ of you have, which is the ability to work within a budget."

Neal and Elizabeth shared a look. Finally Elizabeth said, "Budget?"

"Yeah," Peter said. "None of you have the slightest clue how to budget. Everything you do could be done much more efficiently, which means less waste and less unnecessary theft. The way you throw money around --" He could see he was losing them. "Look, I have an accounting degree. I can get your whole business operating for half the costs you're currently putting out. It gets better," he went on as they stared at him. "You don't have to steal to support yourselves anymore. You have enough assets right now --" he paused briefly; it was evident he was trying not to think about where those assets came from "-- that you can invest wisely, and cover all your costs from the investments. No more stealing."

"But we're _thieves,"_ Neal said helplessly. "We _like_ to steal."

"You steal to benefit others," Peter said. "Not just because things are shiny."

"But sometimes things _are_ shiny," Neal protested. "I'm in charge! You can't just come in and start making decisions."

El's eyes sparkled. "I thought you hated being in charge," she said, and she reached across the table to squeeze Peter's hand.

"Wait, wait, no," Peter protested. "I'm not trying to annex your -- gang, or whatever. I just think it's possible to do things more efficiently and with a lot less risk than you have been."

He looked uncertain now, so El leaned over to kiss him on the corner of his mouth. "I don't think that's a bad idea at all."

They were so doomed, Neal thought. Nothing was going to be the same from now on.

He sat back and listened to Peter and Elizabeth's light banter. Without Peter's notice, Neal deftly pickpocketed his wallet and flipped it open. The contents were very sparse -- ID, credit cards, frequent flyer card, a couple of random receipts for hotels and airport bars. Everything was in the name of Peter Burke.

And tucked carefully behind the credit cards, he found a paper flower, neatly flattened, its mosaic of dried bloodstains faded to the color of old iron.

Slouched in his chair and unnoticed, Neal scribbled a quick note on one of Peter's bar receipts and folded it into a matching flower. He flattened it delicately and tucked it inside the wallet next to the other one. Then he returned the wallet to Peter's pocket.

As he leaned back innocently in his chair, he noticed Elizabeth watching him over the top of her glass, her lips quirked in a smile.

"What are you two grinning about?" Peter wanted to know.

"Nothing," Neal said cheerfully, and went to fetch a fresh pitcher of sangria; the ice cubes were melting.

On the receipt he'd written: _Welcome back._

\--

Bonus: Aragarna's original artwork that prompted the fic. Since I changed the plot so that it was no longer a WWII AU, she made a new artwork for me (the cover at the beginning) but this was the original:

If you like her artwork, [let her know!](http://aragarna.livejournal.com/73269.html)


End file.
